


Through the Tinted Veil

by Nyeetzsche



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Good Harry Potter, Good Severus Snape, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Mean Harry Potter, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Slytherin Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyeetzsche/pseuds/Nyeetzsche
Summary: At the end of his fifth year, Harry Potter, Slytherin Prefect, is betrayed by his best friend Draco Malfoy, and is thrown through the Veil. Finding himself five years in the past, he makes a plan to stop the Dark Lord, and fix his mistakes while he's at it. A plan that is torn to shreds when he gets sorted into...Gryffindor? Now he has to find the Chamber of Secrets, work out where Pettigrew is hiding, and stop the Dark Lord from rising. Not to mention, he has to deal with his former friends turned foes. But, at least with the friends he makes in his new house, he won't be alone. A time-travel fic with a non Mary Sue Harry, who's powers are back to their Year 1 level and who lacks knowledge of the horcruxes, amongst many other things...





	1. Chapter 1

Harry stared down the length of the wand, his mind failing to comprehend what he was seeing. Logically, he knew he was betrayed. It seemed unlikely that Draco Malfoy would be standing beside his father, holding a wand at his best friend with the Dark Lord himself looking smug in the corner about the whole situation.  
"I really am sorry about this, Harry." Said Draco, his father’s hand clasped tightly on his shoulder.  
Harry stared speechlessly at his now-former best friend. One part of him screamed that this was a nightmare, one of so many he’d had over the last year. Another part of him just observed the proceedings with the detached indifference he was famous for. It was ironic, that part of him claimed, that for all his talk about logic and reason, Harry Potter had let misplaced emotion get in his way. And now he was about to pay the price.  
Harry, his mind still too fractured to say anything to his fratricidal best friend, glanced over at Voldemort. The man, if he could still even be called that, stared back at him with a kind of perverted glee on his pale face. His hideously thin red lips were curled upwards in a parody of a smile, as he savoured his inevitable victory.   
His eyes panning back forward, Harry looked up at the elder Malfoy, searching his face for any trace of regret or remorse. Lucius just stared back at him impassively, his cold, stormy-grey eyes holding nothing but contempt. This man would shed no tears for what he had done, nor what he was about to be party to.  
"Dra-…” He stuttered, before cutting himself off. His mind, as shattered as it was, still retained enough intelligence to realise there’d be no convincing Draco to turn against his father now. Not with his victory, and the spoils that came with it, so close at hand. “I-." Harry stuttered again, before shutting his mouth.   
It was a rare occasion that Harry Potter had nothing to say. Five years in Slytherin had sharpened his wit, and he could count on one hand the times he didn’t have some clever retort or comeback.  
It was just like him to have one of those times be today. He hesitated for a few moments, his body frozen in reaching for his wand. The villainous trio just stared at him, with expressions between smug and apologetic. Of course Voldemort wanted to savour this. He’d been waiting fifteen years of his victory. He could wait a few moments longer for this.  
As Harry’s mind began to piece itself back together, his mind desperately searched for something, anything, to say. A retort, comeback, a question, anything. Preferably, something that would buy time for somebody to save him. Sirius, maybe? Or, if he was really lucky, Dumbledore. Of course, Harry Potter was not known for his luck.  
A few more moments passed.   
Nothing.  
It was over. Harry felt all of his plans, his dreams, his ideas and his burdens slowly melt away as he waited for his doom to come. For the first time in years, he was free. Too bad it had to be in his final moments.  
He searched his friend's face for a trace of the young man he knew. Had it all been a lie? The laughs, the tears, the defeats and the triumphs they had shared over the past five years. He looked his best friend dead in the eye, hoping against hope that there was indication this was all part of some larger plan. But his eyes were cold, and they stared right back at him. Harry just sighed. Before he left this world forever, he wanted to know one last thing.  
"Why?"  
He wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see, but he could have sworn Draco's eyes flickered with sorrow for a moment, before they hardened again. "Because I had to." With that, he flicked his wand. Time slowed to a crawl for Harry, as Malfoy began the Banishing Charm.

So this was it. This is the end, Harry thought numbly as he stared, while the end of his life came towards him at a maddeningly slow pace. It really was underwhelming. In a few seconds, it would all be over. Just like that. No glorious battle for the future of Wizarding Britain. No dramatic reveal that Voldemort had been tricked, and that he’d somehow already lost. Just him, a spell, and a magical artefact. Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d sacrificed. Everything others had sacrificed for him. All were about to be rendered pointless. Harry did not consider himself as an emotional person, but even he had to admit, that part hurt a little. That all the blood, and the sweat, and the tears that had been shed in the fight against the Dark Lord was meaningless…well, it just didn’t seem fair.  
In fact, it wasn’t fair. It made him angry. It made him furious just to think about it. He’d spent years preparing to protect himself against the genocidal maniac, and now he was going to be cut down like a lamb to the slaughter anyway. 

No. It wouldn't end this way. It couldn't. He wouldn't let it. No good Slytherin would just let themselves die like cattle. And Harry was the best. His fury, and hurt, and rage at being so cruelly betrayed coursed through him, coalescing into something useful. His hand curled around his yew wand, and he whipped it out of its sleeve. With a wordless cry of pure anger, he unleashed a bolt of pure energy at his target, just as Draco finished his spell. 

Harry felt himself thrown back, as the Veil's gaping maw rushed to swallow him. However, something else was rushing to meet the Veil. A bolt of red light flew towards the Veil, ripping the fabric of the portal asunder just as Harry went through.

Black. White. Red. Blue. Colours, named and unnamed, rushed all around him in a pattern of stunning complexity and richness. Harry could perceive it, but he couldn't quite understand it. He looked uncomprehendingly as wave after wave of feelings, thoughts, locations and time crashed onto him. It was as if he was supposed to understand something, but couldn't, like a snitch just out of his reach. He felt his mind and body tremble and buckle, on the verge of breaking as he continued his journey through what he intuitively felt was the very lifeblood of reality. Suddenly, it stopped. Blackness claimed him.

Then there was whiteness again. No, not white, blond. An unhealthy, bleached blond that could only ever belong to one person.  
"What's your surname, anyway?" The blond boy said keenly, as he sat perched on the stool. Slowly, Harry took in his surroundings. It was Madame Malkin's. Row upon row of clothes stood in the shop, and Harry felt the grasp of Madame Malkin herself as she measured him up.  
Harry's eyes turned back to his best friend (or so he thought up until five minutes ago), who stared at him with an impatient look. Harry stared dumbly back, not trusting himself to speak. Why was Draco so short? And baby-faced? Had it all been a dream? He looked down, bringing his up. Had they always been so small? In fact, his whole body felt small, as if…  
No.  
No way.  
"Well?" Draco demanded as he gestured impatiently at his thoroughly unimpressive housemate. "What is it?"  
Before Harry had time to answer, however, Madame Malkin told him that he was all done. So, instead of answering, he bonelessly stumbled his way to the door, trying to ignore the eyes of Draco Malfoy burning into his back. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening. Was it a dream? Was he hallucinating? Was he dead? If he was, then it was the most completely underwhelming heaven (or, more realistically, hell) he could imagine. As he emerged back into the bright street of Diagon Alley, he rubbed his eyes disbelievingly. When he opened them again, the alley was still there. He rubbed them again. Still nothing. For good measure, he gave them a final, long blink, just to make sure. Everything was still there, exactly how he remembered it. 30th of July, 1991. He was back. He couldn't be. But he was.

"'Arry!" A deep, familiar voice cried out to him happily, pulling him back to reality. "Wha's wrong?" asked Hagrid, a concerned look on his bearded face as he stared down at his young charge.  
"N-nothing professor, nothing at all." Harry lied smoothly, with an admittedly unconvincing smile.  
Hagrid look bewildered for a second, his eyebrows drawn together as if trying to solve a particularly obtuse math problem. "Professor? Nah, Harry, I told yer, I'm jus' the Groundskeeper, not no professor or nothing! Anyways, if you're all measured up, we've only got one thing left t'do. We need ter' getcha a wand, lad!" He continued happily as he ushered his young charge down the street to Ollivanders clearing the way with his sheer size as Harry desperately tried to work out what in the hell was going on.  
The rest of the day passed just as it had five years ago, minus his original self's friendly chat with his (former) best friend Draco Malfoy. He went back to Ollivander's, sat through the man's creepy monologue about his ‘new’ wand (13 ½ inches, Yew, with a Phoenix feather core) and its brother, wondering how he hadn't ran away screaming at the man's frankly unhealthy obsession with wands the first time around. 

Harry just tuned out, trying to absorb the absurdity of the situation. Magic was, in a fact universally acknowledged by even the most knowledgeable magical theorists, an inherently unpredictable phenomenon, as was natural for an art that drew much of its power from primal forces. But this…this went far beyond the recorded boundaries of magic. He even remembered asking Dra-  
Bile filled his stomach as he thought of the boy who he had, until this moment, considered his brother in all but blood. Was he now consigned to an alternate world, or had Harry’s actions ensured that he was now gone, only a spectre of unrealised possibility? Even if Harry did everything the same again, surely the Malfoy he knew would be-  
Ruthlessly, Harry blanked out his mind. Visualising a deep chasm, he stuffed his thoughts down deep. Emotion like that was a vice, a luxury he could ill afford. He needed his mind clear, and sharp. There was too much he needed to think about.   
As the day wound down, he went back through the Leaky Cauldron, into Paddington Station, and had a quick bite to eat with his guardian for the day, who rambled on about how he'd do great things at Hogwarts between bites of his (third) burger. Then, he got onto the train, and went back to the Dursley's. This time, however, he wasn’t terrified, like he was five years ago. He wasn’t worried. He knew what he had to do. And he was excited.  
Because Harry Potter, Prefect, Quidditch Captain, and Seeker, was going to do it all over again.  
And this time, he was going to do it right.


	2. Chapter 2

As Harry walked back down the path to 4 Privet Drive, his confused mind grappling with the fact that he was, in fact, five years in the past, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny smidgeon of fear at the fact he’d have to spend any amount of time with the Dursleys. He shivered unconsciously as he reached the door to the house, putting his ear to the door to see if anybody was lurking on the other side of it, laying in wait to ambush the freak. He could hear a muted conversation from somewhere inside the kitchen, but if he was lucky he could probably sprint up the stairs and into his room quickly enough that the Dursley’s wouldn’t have time to catch him. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door a crack, his stomach somersaulting like a circus acrobat. Fortunately, there were no fat faces waiting for him on the other side, so, marshalling his courage, he slipped into the door, and up the stairs, leaving his relatives none the wiser. 

Harry shut his bedroom door, locking it with a quick charm before collapsing onto his bed. He needed some time to figure this out. Once more, he gave himself a final once-over, just to make sure that he was, for certain this time, back in the body of his eleven year old self. Yep. That just about summed it all up. Looking up at the ceiling, he tried to organise his thoughts into something vaguely resembling a cohesive thought pattern. Okay, he was back in time. Because his best and first friend had betrayed him. The Dark Lord was still in hiding, probably inhabiting Quirrel at that very moment. Sirius: Probably back in prison, trying to hold onto what remained of his sanity. So that was probably a priority. Sighing heavily, Harry grabbed a sheaf of parchment out of his trunk. It was time to do what he was good at. It was time to make a plan.

“Alright, first off, get Sirius out of prison.” He murmured to himself. If he had to spend another summer at the Dursley’s he’d do a hell of a lot worse than blow up his aunt, that was for certain.   
“Just got to find that rat. I can’t imagine he was at Hogwarts the whole time, how dumb would you have to be to hang around the most powerful wizard of the age for eleven years? No, he’s probably with some random family somewhere who are too dumb to question a rat living waay longer than it should.” He took down a note. Step 1, find Pettigrew and free Sirius.

Step 2 was a bit more obvious. Dark Lord can’t get you if he never rises, Harry thought smugly. That wasn’t too hard to do, at least until after the Triwizard Tournament. After that, everything would be up in the air. Although…Harry absentmindedly scrunched his face as he peered down at his growing to-do list. There had to be a way that the Dark Lord was sustaining himself that went beyond being a powerful wizard. Probably some obscenely powerful dark magic or some-such. Harry took down another note. Find out how the Dark Lord is still kicking around and, if possible, neutralise him permanently. He nodded in satisfaction at that one. There would probably be plenty of information at the Hogwarts library to help him sort it out.

Alright, Harry thought to himself. On to Step 3. What was the most damaging event unconnected to the Dark Lord that he could stop? Well, to that there was only one answer. The basilisk. Eight children at Hogwarts had died before the beast was brought down, and Dumbledore had been forced to resign from the ICW and the Wizengamot after the whole affair. Since that had happened second year, Harry decided this was probably first priority.   
Great. So all he had to do was stop the most powerful dark wizard in decades, find an animagus that could be literally anywhere in the world, and, on top of it all, find the location of the legendary Chamber of Secrets, not to mention work out who the so-called ‘Heir of Slytherin’ was. Harry looked to Hedwig, who chirruped, kindly staring at him with her big eyes.   
“Well Hedwig, I think this is going to be an interesting year.” 

August came and went pretty peacefully in the Dursley household. Harry and his relatives avoided each other at all costs, with a few glares and taut requests to pass a condiment being the only real interaction they had. Truthfully, it was the most kindly Harry had felt towards the Dursley’s for quite a while. He personally spent the month holed up in his room, writing letters to the goblins at Gringott’s and requesting books from Flourish and Blott’s. After a few practice attempts at casting, Harry had found that with his new body came certain limitations. All of his precious muscle memory, built over painstaking years of practice perfecting every little flourish and sweep of the wand, was gone. To make matters worse, his eleven year old body’s magic seemed only a little above average for an average child of his age, so, when he got the chance to actually perform spells at Hogwarts, he suspected that at best he’d only be able to perform fourth year magic in the very best case scenario, and even that would drain him immeasurably. Still, it wasn’t all bad news. This time around he’d taken great pains to start eating properly, occasionally going out to the shops after converting his sickles and knuts into pounds. He could almost feel himself growing taller, his body lapping up the nutrients and proteins it had been lacking for almost eight years. However, as time inched forward towards the all important September 1st, Harry couldn’t help feeling completely, and irrevocably bored. Unable to cast spells, and finding himself lacking his customary holidays pursuit of letters to friends and avoiding the occasional bout of Harry-hunting, he found himself spending most of his time sitting in bed, reading whatever he could get his hands on from Flourish and Blotts, who were kind enough to owl some books over to him in the dead of night. Most days and nights, however, he just found himself going over and over the same old mistakes he had made in the past (future?). Could he have stopped Malfoy from betraying him? Was Sirius even in trouble that night? And just how the hell would he act around his former best friend, knowing that the kid was destined to betray him? Agonising nights of doubts, recriminations and second-guessing seemed to be the only markers of time for Harry in the Dursley household, with as time seemed to slow down the closer he got to the Hogwarts express. Finally, on the night of August 31st, Harry set his alarm clock to 6:00 AM, and, with his mind racing with thoughts of how he’d talk to Daph, Tracey, Theo and the rest, fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

It was here. The day, at long last, had arrived. September 1st, the date which had frantic parents kissing their children goodbye for two long months. The date that had changed lives, made friendships, created new alliances and cemented new ones. For Harry it held no small amount of trepidation. The first time had been bad enough, even knowing that he had Malfoy as a friend before he got there. Now, without his friendship, he had absolutely no clue how things would go. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be friends with Draco bloody Malfoy after the Department of Mysteries fiasco! No matter, he concluded wearily as he stared up at the small crack in the paint of his bedroom roof. He would work it out. Groaning, he slipped out of bed, grabbing his wand and glasses. He nuzzled Hedwig affectionately, before picking up his trunk, grunting at the weight of it. He sighed to himself, and rubbed his bleary eyes. He tapped the top of the trunk, and tested its weight again. Weightless. Content that the charm placed on it was working as intended, he put it back down and put on one of the new t-shirts he had bought, pairing it with a pair of slim jeans that he had taken a liking to. Tiptoeing across the wooden floorboards, he had a quick shower, hoping that it didn’t wake his aunt or uncle. Looking in the mirror, he flopped his hear down over his head, to make sure his scar was invisible. After a few anxious minutes, he snuck back into his bedroom and dressed himself. He checked the clock beside his bed. 6:40. Nodding appreciatively, he grabbed his trunk and headed downstairs, finding his way down in the gloomy pre-dawn light. It was rather anti-climactic, all in all. No shouting, no fanfare, no nothing. He just had to go through this door, and this chapter of his life was done (again). Looking back up the stairs to make certain this wasn’t some elaborate trap, he took a deep breath, and opened the door. Nothing but the frigid morning air rose to greet him. Silently closing the door behind him, he walked out to the middle of the road, and held out his wand. 

Almost immediately, the Knight Bus popped into existence, its three decks rising higher than any of the houses in the small street of Privet Drive. As the doors opened, an unfamiliar young man with a broad smile and a cockney accent rose to greet him. “’ello, ‘ello, mate you must be one of the Hogwarts firsties, entcha? Go on then, ‘oo are yer?”  
Harry, taken aback by the man’s terrifying enthusiasm for what must be one of the most boring jobs in existence, stammered something to the affirmative, before remembering his cover name. “Fudd. Elmer Fudd, nice to meet you.”   
“Well Mister Fudd, I reckon you’ll be wanting to go to the Platform?”  
“Er, yeah, exactly. Just King’s Cross will do fine though, I’ll grab some breakfast before heading over.”  
“Alright, alright, well that’d be ‘bout eleven sickles I reckon, you can pay when you get off. Now, best be getting to yer seat young mister Fudd, we’ll be leavin’ shortly, orright?”   
“Sure.” Harry replied, before shakily climbing through the almost empty bus. There were a few others on the bus with him, but they paid him no mind, so he was free to sit back in his seat and try to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach as the bus made turns and movements that stretched the boundaries of what even magic was able to do. After an incredibly nervewracking hour filled with stops and starts, with people flowing on and off the contraption, the bus stopped just outside of King’s Cross station. After paying the sickles he owed, Harry took a deep breath, and got off the bus, prepared to meet his destiny. 

Pancakes. A terrible name for one of the greatest breakfasts Harry could think of. After a quick traipse to the platform, Harry’s stomach had voiced its protest that Harry had skipped breakfast. Naturally, he had decided that since this was such a special occasion, only a similarly special meal was appropriate, thus, Harry had found himself sitting over a mug of hot chocolate, with a stack of pancakes generously covered in maple syrup. He’d also ordered a bit of bacon as a special treat for Hedwig, much to the consternation of the café staff. After scoffing the whole lot down (to the great surprise of the waiter), he checked one of the big clocks in the station. 9:02. Perfect. Gently dabbing his face with a napkin, he paid his bill and wandered off to the platform, his trunk and owl in tow. Ignoring the odd looks the muggles gave him, he calmly walked past the large sign denoting Platform 9. He noticed a few familiar faces as he walked towards the platform. The Gryffindor chaser and captain, Spinnet, walked ahead of him, disappearing from view as she went into the the third archway between platforms 9 and 10. Suddenly, he heard a voice, a voice that every so often cropped up in his nightmares.   
“Look, mummy! There! It’s the platform!” A bossy, enthusiastic voice cried out. As Harry looked around wildly, searching for the desperate voice, his eyes alighted on a bushy, brown haired girl tugging demandingly on an older woman’s hand. Her earnest, cherubic features were angled downwards in a somewhat anxious posture as she made her way across the gate, in the aisle opposite from Harry’s. A vision came unbidden to Harry’s eyes, of the same face, but slightly older. Of wide, brown eyes, staring unseeingly up at him, her face frozen in a rictus of fear. The water of the flooded bathroom lapping around her, drenching her brown hair, as her corpse lay on the grungy bathroom tiles, petrified.   
Harry let out a choked gasp, forcing the images from his mind as he fell against one of the pillars of the platform, his hands quivering and shaking. He shut his eyes as he felt himself hyperventilating, his body going into overdrive to protect himself from some unseen threat. He stood like that for a few moments, just breathing, his face burning up as he imagined the strange looks people must have been throwing his way. A nervous hoot sounded. One eye opened, peering at Hedwig’s round, calming eyes which stared right back at him. He took a breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling from his mouth. It was alright. It was okay. That hadn’t happened yet. That wouldn’t happen for a whole other year. He sighed as he looked around for the annoying bookworm, but found nothing but the eyes of concerned adults who cast sidelong glances at him and his owl.   
“Well, at least that’s over with” Harry said in a shaky voice, trying to recompose himself. “Okay Harry, here we go, just keep it together, keep your head down, try to ignore Draco and you’ll be fine.” With that, he set off again, his stomach once again somersaulting as he got ever closer to the wall. What if it broke? What if something had happened during the time travel and it didn’t let him in? What if-then, just like that, he was through. Around him, the sounds of the muggle train stations morphed into the cries of Platform 9 and a 3 Quarters. The Hogwarts Express shone, as even this early the frenzied activity of current and soon-to-be students engulfed the platform in a sea of scurrying bodies. As he made his way through the sea of people, subconsciously hunching his form in the hopes that nobody saw the scar, he thought for sure that he saw a flash of Bones’s red hair, accompanied by the blonde locks of somebody who could only be Hannah Abbot. Elsewhere, he heard cries of disgust and somebody raving about a tarantula. He had to admit, he missed this. The last few years had been so full of darkness and fear that getting onto the platform become somewhat akin to attending a funeral. The innocence of the kids that slowly flowed onto the train was something that he found himself, in a strange way, admiring.   
“I’ll keep it like this” He muttered grimly, his mouth set in a tight line. “I won’t let anything happen. Not this time.”   
With that comforting thought, he wandered onto the train, looking to find a nice unoccupied one where he could be alone and recover from his earlier panic attack. As he passed a compartments about halfway down the train, he heard a familiar, drawling voice.

“Did you hear that Harry Potter is going to be in our year? My father told me to keep an eye out for him specially. Apparently he’s been raised by muggles! I can’t imagine what that muggle-loving dope Bumblebore was thinking, probably trying to indoctrinate the poor kid. My father said that I should bring him around to the right way of thinking, before somebody dopes him into making friends with the wrong sort, you know?”  
Malfoy. Draco. Godamn. Malfoy. Harry gritted his teeth, prepared to walk into the compartment where he knew Malfoy, Greengrass, and probably the gorillas were staying in.   
This was it. Time to make a real first impres sion, impress everybody and take up where he left off. Never mind the fact that at some point in the last five years every single one of the people in that room had stabbed him in the back at some point. He began talking to himself again, trying to psyche himself up. “it’s fine, you can do this Harry. You’ll be spending the next seven years with them, you’ve got to confront them at some point. It’s fine. Just do it. They don’t know. Just stop Draco from licking his father’s boots.” By Merlin’s beard, he could really do with a Pepper-Up potion. His hand reached towards the compartment door. Then it stopped. He tried to force his hand onto the compartment door, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to do it. Truth was, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to be friends with the people in there. As he thought through it, the more he wanted to just leave them alone. Worst came to worst, he’d just make his introductions later. Yes, that was the way to go about. As long as it meant he didn’t have to walk into the compartment right that minute, he was more than happy to go along with it.   
Withdrawing his hand, he slowly turned around, and marched further down the corridor. A few compartments down, towards the back of the train, he found an empty compartment, with a commanding view of the station platform. He sat down by the window, gazing out as more children and parents congregated on the platform. He didn’t know how long he stared out at the platform, looking at faces he half-remembered, but it must have been at least half an hour, if not more, as each new face brought back a memory. Lavender Brown, gossiping about whether he was lying about the Dark Lord. Marcus Flint, testing him as seeker in second year. Neville Longbottom, breaking down and crying in the middle of not-Moody’s first lecture. Behind him, heard voices of friends reuniting, and compartment doors opening and shutting. However, he tuned them out, preferring instead to just gaze forlornly out the window. 

“Excuse me?” A small voice queried quietly.   
Harry almost jumped out of his skin as he was startled out of his stupor, gasping out a startled half-cry. As he turned from the window, he found himself staring into those eyes. Brown eyes, that this time were not staring unseeingly back at him. These eyes were looking at him rather intently, without that superior look he had come to associate with the girl. The eyes of Hermione Granger.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione Granger wouldn’t admit this to anyone, not even herself, but she was absolutely, completely terrified. How else was she supposed to feel? Plucked out of her world and placed into another, with no context, and, most egregiously, no apparent logic to guide her. But, despite her fear upon her arrival in this exciting new ‘Wizarding World’, there was also a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could belong in this world in a way she never had in her old.   
She’d always known she was different from the other kids at her primary school. When they went and played in the sun, she sat in the shade with a book. When the weekend came around, other people went on playdates and sleepovers, relishing the break from school. Hermione stayed at home and learnt. Whilst at first she had tried to share her knowledge with others, trying so desperately to fit in, she had quickly learnt that the other kids didn’t want her there. They thought she was a stuck-up know-it-all who thought she was better than everyone else. Hermione had tried to ignore the taunts and glares sent her way whenever she answered in class, she really had, but in the end she wasn’t allowed to. Wherever she went, at school, in the park, in the mall, somebody would find her and she would know that they were making fun of her. So, after particularly painful day, she had given up trying to fit in. She made a point of being turning her nose up at their stupid schoolyard games, of answering every question she could. She didn’t bother talking to people her own age anymore, forsaking their company for that of her teacher’s. It was her own, small way of defying them, of showing them that they would never break her down, and that she would never, ever give in. So, when she got home, and when the tears had all dried up, she spent her time soaking up all the information she could, learning anything and everything that would help her go back tomorrow and do it all again. It had been like that for years.   
Then, one day, things changed. A particularly loathsome boy called Ernie Smith had started pulling her hair and stealing her books, throwing them up into the big tree in the middle of the playground, and calling her beaver-girl as she climbed to get them back down. One day, Ernie was feeling particularly athletic, and threw Return of the King all the way to the top of the highest branch, where it nestled in a crook of the tree. Hermione had tried to climb it, but fell down. Everybody laughed. She tried to climb again, her soft hands cutting themselves on the hard branches of the tree. Then, the recess bell had sounded, and people had gone back inside. But Hermione couldn’t. She was too high up, and she wouldn’t just let Ernie win. She was so angry, and hurt, and scared, and then-then, she was on the ground, her book flying down from the top of the tree right into her waiting hands. Nobody else had seen it, nobody else knew. But she knew. She knew something had changed. In the next year, after she turned 11, other strange things happened. Her jumper, which the other kids had stolen and thrown in mud, was clean when she got home. When her hat was stolen and torn in half when she wrestled to get it back, she had clutched it to her chest, and suddenly it was whole again. She never said a word of it to anyone, not even her parents. Instead, she pored over her books, trying to understand what was happening. She didn’t think that she was being possessed by a demon, so it had to be magic, surely? But there was nothing in her books about real magic, so for months on end she was left to ponder.  
Then, a letter had come. A simple, wonderful letter, embossed with a wax seal that simply told her that magic was real, that she was a witch, and that they wanted her. They wanted to teach her. Because she was special. Her parents had nearly thrown it out, convinced that it was a stupid prank, but when Hermione had told them about all the strange goings on, they relented, and assented to let a strange visitor prove that they were telling the truth, that magic was, in fact, real. 

Then, Professor McGonagall had come, telling her that not only was she magical, but there was a whole world of people like her, living right under their noses. That night, Hermione cried. Not from sadness, or loneliness like she normally did. No, these tears were tears of joy. Tears of hope, that maybe, just maybe, she could find a place to belong. And, more than anything, she just wanted to belong.  
She wanted to belong so badly, in fact, that when her parents went to Diagon Alley, she had insisted on buying just about every book on history, culture, and magic she could get her hands on. Each night, she stayed up late, devouring this whole new world of information. She practised the movements for spells for hours on end, waving her wand around in the background, to the bemusement of her parents, who had never seen her go outside that much in the past ten years combined. As she learnt about her new world, Hermione Granger learnt about somebody particularly interesting. Harry Potter. She learnt how he had defeated Wizard Hitler when he was only a baby, how his childhood was filled with adventures, as he wandered into old castles, talking to ghosts, solved mysteries. She learnt so much about the boy-who-lived that she had already come to regard him as a friend when she had discovered his birthday. July 31st, 1980. She herself had been born on September 12, 1979. The squeal she had made when she learnt that the Boy-Who-Lived might be in her year had sent her parents running up to her bedroom, thinking that she had either hurt herself or was suffering from some kind of psychological break. Instead, they had just found her clutching a book happily, with the broadest smile on their daughter’s face that they had ever seen. 

But now, she was at the station, and nothing was going as she’d planned. She wasn’t naïve enough to hope that somebody would come up and start talking to her about Lord of the Rings or how excited they were for classes to start, of course, but she had hoped that somebody would at least start talking to her. But it was not to be, and as she lost herself in the chattering crowd, the courage and hope she’d felt started to drain away, bit by bit. Still, she resolved, she wasn’t going to let a small setback get her down. She had a whole year to make some friends, after all.   
“It’s these filthy new mudbloods Bumblebore insists on taking in of course. No sense of tradition or pride. My father says the school’s gone to the dogs with him in charge.” A aristocratic, sneering voice said loudly.  
Hermione froze for a second, searching for the voice, which seemed to be moving towards the train.  
“I do hope they get the hint and go back to where they came from.” The voice said again, slowly fading out into the background of the crowd.   
Hermione, looked down sadly for a moment. She knew that some people had issues with people like her coming into Hogwarts, but she had never dreamt for a moment they would be so brazen about it. What really got her, however, was the youth of the voice. This wasn’t some old guard aristocrat that had fought for You-Know-Who. This was just a kid, like her. Sighing heavily, she trudged through the madding crowd, her trunk in hand, passing through group after group of people, who seemed to know each other so very well. She felt a little like a stranger intruding on a family gathering, everybody seemed to know each other, or at least know of each other. It was only her and a few other muggleborn witches and wizards who weren’t part of the carnival atmosphere, and who knows where they were? She sighed, and climbed up the stairs, looking for a compartment. She didn’t want an empty one. She told herself it was because she wanted to be social, but, secretly, she knew it was because she was worried that nobody would come and join her. She walked down the corridor, looking for an open compartment with somebody her age. Preferably somebody who, like her, was alone. However, the longer she walked down the train, the less likely it seemed her hope would come true. Cabin after cabin was either full of her peers, were from another year, or were reserved for others. But, determined, she steeled herself and carried on. She was towards the back of the train now, and was tempted to give up and go back the way she came. Just a few more, she thought, as she turned her head from left to right, searching for an opening she could grab onto, something that would pull her into this world for good. At that moment, she found it. A boy, about her age, staring forlornly out the window at the crammed platform. His raven black, scruffy hair seemed vaguely familiar, although she didn’t know why. What she did know, however, was that look, and she knew it better than she cared to admit. Tentatively, she opened the door slowly. The boy didn’t turn around, presumably lost in his thoughts. Hermione cleared her throat.   
“Excuse me?” She squeaked out, internally kicking herself at her meekness as the boy turned around to look at her, with big, emerald-green eyes. 

Author’s Notes  
Heya, it’s me! Just thought I’d update on what I’m planning – There will be NO bashing of any kind, Ron will become part of the story and a little later into the term, but he’s going to be a little less insecure, and a little more grown-up than most fanfic versions of him are(although he will retain his somewhat lazy attitude for some time yet). Dumbledore will of course be flawed, but he’s a fundamentally good and reasonable character in this. Please review to help me improve my writing, I know I’m not exactly C.S. Lewis or anything but every little bit of advice helps.


	5. Chapter 5

“Would you.. I mean, if you don’t mind, would it be okay if I sat here?” She said, anxiously fiddling with her wand as she stared at the boy.  
“Ahh, I mean, yeah, sure I guess.” Harry replied, his mind awash with conflicting emotions as the bushy haired girl sat across from him.  
“I’m Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger.” The girl added as she sat down, nervously eyeing the boy opposite.  
Harry looked down, studiously avoiding eye contact with the bushy-haired bookworm. “Harry. It’s a pleasure” He said, talking mostly to his shoes.   
An awkward silence filled the cabin for a moment as Hermione stared at Harry, who persisted in looking anywhere but at her. Could it be? She thought. No. Surely not.   
“Harry as in…?” She ventured anxiously.  
Internally, Harry sighed. He was used to it by now, of course. The whispers and the glances at his forehead. His hair could only conceal so much, after all. Still, the last thing he wanted was to go through the next year or so with dozens of starstruck kids ogling him.   
“Yep. That’s me, what of it?” He snapped, a little harsher than he intended.   
Hermione’s eyes widened a little. “Well, it’s just that I’ve read all about you! You were in Modern Magical History, and The Rise and Fall of the Dark A-“

Harry cut her off angrily. “Yeah, my parents died, and I got cursed, and I don’t even bloody remember what happened. But hey, I was the only one to survive the killing curse, so hooray, I guess it was all worth it.”   
Unbeknownst to him, Hermione’s eyes brimmed with tears a little, as she set her mouth into a firm line, determined not to cry. Nice work, Hermione, she thought, way to make a great first impression. Talk about his dead parents and his scar, that’ll sure make him like you. Idiot.   
Meanwhile, Harry sighed internally again. He hadn’t meant to be so rude. Not really. He just didn’t like talking about it, especially when he didn’t deserve any of the plaudits he got. Not that anybody else knew, except, of course, Dumbledore, but it had been his mother, not him, who really banished the Dark Lord for a decade. Compared to her, he didn’t really do anything.   
“Sorry.” They said, simultaneously.   
“I ju”  
“I didn’t me-“ They talked over each other accidentally, before an awkward silence claimed them again, neither wanting to interrupt again. They looked at each other.   
“I-I didn’t mean to be rude” Harry started.  
“No, I shouldn’t have talked about it.”  
“No, really, its fine.”  
“No, really, it’s my fault.”  
“I-“  
They were interrupted again as a set of brown skinned twins Harry recognised as Padma and Parvarti, opened the door.   
“Sorry, we don’t mean to interrupt.” The one on the left (Padma?) said. “But, well, you’re first years too, right? Do you mind if we sit here with you?”  
Hermione and Harry glanced at each other for a moment, before looking back at the two girls.   
“Of course!” Harry said, his cheerful mask slipping into place. “The more the merrier!”  
The two girls gave a grateful, coordinated smile, before sitting down opposite each other, with Padma next to Hermione and Parvarti next to Harry. Neither seemed to have noticed that they were sitting with one of the most famous wizards of the age, but Harry suspected they’d work out quickly once they got a good luck at his face.   
“I’m Parvarti, by the way. And this is my twin sister, Padma.” Parvarti explained as Hermione looked curiously at her new companions. “You can tell us apart because I’m the pretty one.” She smiled by way of indicating it was a joke, although the slight wince Padma had on her face for a moment suggested it cut a little close to home for the more bookish twin.  
“Hermione, Hermione Granger. Its lovely to meet you both.” Hermione replied, with a slight smile. “And this is…this is, ah, well..”   
Harry took over the introduction. If there was one thing he hated more than the Dark Lord, it was awkward introductions. “Harry, Harry Potter. Nice to meet you both.” He smiled with his hand outstretched, ready for squeals of excitement that he was so used to hearing. Sure enough, the two girls looked at each other, wide-eyed, before giving twin squeals and eagerly taking his hand.  
“You’re really him? Oh, Merlin, it’s really you!”  
“You are so, brave, Harry, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you!”   
“This is amazing, I knew you were in our year but I never guessed-“  
Harry internally rolled his eyes. He’d heard it all before, more times than he could count. Outwardly, however, he kept a firm image of benevolent kindness as he smiled at them.   
“Yes, yes, I know, its all very exciting. But you know all about me, how about you tell me more about you?” He grinned at them. People so loved to talk about themselves, especially when somebody they wanted the approval of wanted to hear it.   
“Well, we’re from India originally, but we relocated here in ’83, a few years after we were born.” Padma explained enthusiastically, gesturing with her hands. 

Another knock at the door. They all looked to the noise, to see a red haired, freckly child nervously opening the door.   
“umm..Hello. You mind? All the other cars are full.” He said, somewhat timidly.   
Harry narrowed his eyes at the newcomer. Ron. Weasley. The loud-mouthed brute embodied everything Harry loathed about Gryffindor. Impetuous. Stupid. No regard for consequences, and an idea of honour and dignity that would baffle the lowliest peasant. The lad had been a thorn in Harry’s side from day one, acting as either an unconscious irritant or a conscious harasser. And those were on his good days. How he believed that anybody would believe that ridiculous excuse about all the other cars being full was beyond him. Before he could speak, however, Hermione spoke up.  
“Please, take a seat, if you wish. I expect we’ll be leaving soon.” She said imperiously.   
Harry smiled at the irony of it all. If Hermione knew what happened between her and the weasel, he wondered if she’d be so welcoming.   
“Err, thanks, I guess. I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.” He smiled gormlessly, with a desperation to please that Harry had come to associate with the weasel. Still, formalities and protocol had to be observed, it just wouldn’t do to be rude to the kid, not at this juncture anyway.   
“Harry, Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.” Harry said coolly, with his usual easy smile that came so naturally after years of practice.   
Ron’s eyes widened comically. “Blimey. It’s you. Have you really got the…well, the..” He looked around at the passengers, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “the scar?”  
Harry rolled his eyes, unable to internalise it this time, before pulling up his hair. His red, angry scar was still there, of course, and the entire cabin turned to gaze at it reverently. He supposed it was too much to hope for that it had inexplicably disappeared and retracted into his skull at the sight of the junior Weasley.  
“Woah.” Ron said wonderingly, before pulling his gaze away from the promised land. “Oh, and, er..who are you lot, then?” He said, with somewhat feigned interest. Another round of greetings followed, punctuated with some awkward handshakes. Ron finally sat down next to Parvarti, before a final knock at the door sounded. A chubby, black haired boy with a frightened expression stood at the door, almost quivering with terror.   
“E-excuse me…m-may I sit, may I sit here?” asked Neville Longbottom.  
Harry narrowed his eyes again at the newcomer. Neville was, truly, the most pathetic wizard he’d ever known. A spineless invertebrate, with no magical skill to speak of save a freakish addiction to Herbology. For as long as he’d known him, Neville had lived almost every waking moment with some sort of fear or apprehension, and Harry felt equal parts pity at revulsion at the big-boned lad. Still, he allowed, Neville could be a useful ally. The Longbottoms had quite a bit of wealth and prestige to their name, and if he could get Neville onside he’d have something of ally on the Wizengamot when he left school. SO, as distasteful as it may be, he had to play nice. For now.  
“Cousin!” Harry stood up with an effusive gesture, beckoning him in with a big smile. “Good to see you, please, do come, take a seat next to Padma there.”  
“C-cousin?” the boy squeaked nervously, his eyes widening as he regarded this strange, kind boy.  
“Yes, I’m Harry, Harry Potter, and with the bloodlines as they are, well, I’m sure we’re related in some way or another.” Harry explained genially as he sat down. “Anyways, what house do you think you’ll be in?”   
“I…I dunno. Hufflepuff, I guess, they’re probably the only ones who’ll take me.” Neville said despondently. “Nan’s got her heart set on Gryffindor though, says that my dad was good enough for it, and so should I.”   
Harry winced at the boy’s lack of self-confidence. He had learnt early on in Slytherin that if you had nothing to give, and talked down to yourself, people would treat you with the same disrespect that you treated yourself.   
“I think I’ll be Gryffindor, meself.” Ron butted in, giving his unasked for opinion. “All my brothers are, and my dad was too, so I’ll probably go there, I reckon. I don’t really mind though, as long as I’m not in Slytherin.” He added with venom. “I dunno how we get sorted, though. Fred and George said that we have to fight a troll!”  
Hermione scoffed. “Honestly, Ron, they wouldn’t make us fight a troll before our first lesson, that would be just silly.” She explained condescendingly. “I don’t know who these ‘Fred and George’ are, but I don’t think they’re a reliable source of information.”   
Ron narrowed his eyes a little, the condescension going over his head, but the small slight towards his troublemaking brothers not. “And who asked you? What would you know about how we get sorted anyhow?” He asked, an edge to his voice. Time to stop this before it got out of hand. The last thing Harry wanted was to deal with two angry 11 year olds before the damned train even got started.  
“I expect I’ll be in Slytherin, myself.” He said, a little smugness creeping into his voice. Let them chew on that! The “golden boy”, going into nasty, evil Slytherin? He hoped that everybody would be as shocked as they were last time. A part of him was looking forward to savouring the looks of horror on the faces of the other houses.   
A short silence filled the cabin at this shock announcement, broken (of course) by one Ron Weasley.  
“A Slytherin?” He asked indignantly, “Blimey, why would you want to be a Slytherin? You know that’s where all the dark wizards come from, right mate?”   
“In case you didn’t notice, the Slytherin motto and values say nothing about being a factory for dark wizards. Guess what the house values are? Cunning, and ambition. I can’t possibly see the problem with that. What’s wrong with wanting to improve things, having goals and knowing how to get there?” He retorted, trying to keep anger out of his voice. “All I want to do is help people, you know.” He finished, trying to make himself as wide-eyed and innocent as possible.   
Ron, unexpectedly, subsided without even a hint of a grumble, as the group seemed to give a satisfied nod. Then, the sound of a whistle passed into the small compartment, and Harry settled back into his seat as conversation began to haltingly fill the cabin again, whilst the train gave a jerking motion, beginning the long ride to Hogwarts. As he settled back, he failed to notice a brown lump crawl out of a certain redhead’s bag. The rat stared at him with intelligent, wary eyes, considering the boy, before scampering back to the warmth of its owner’s pocket.


	6. Chapter 6

Pleasant conversation filled the cabin for the first couple of hours of the journey, as each passenger was slowly brought out of their shell at least a little. Except for Harry, of course. Harry kept up his somewhat gregarious act, contributing a little, but not too much. He didn’t want to give the impression of being a blabbermouth or a know-it-all, after all. Still, he enjoyed himself more than he had expected. As a 15 year old, he had entirely expected every moment of the journey to be torture punctuated with bouts of mere excruciating dullness, but instead the cabin had a likeable dynamic to it. Weasley had been decent enough after the first few minutes, and Neville’s infrequent stuttered remarks were occasionally interesting enough to warrant a follow up. If he was being entirely honest (which, as a rule, he tried not to be) Harry was actually beginning to feel the slightest bit peaceful for the first time since he had arrived in the past. A feeling of peace that was shattered when a familiar, blond haired boy with a trademark smirk had opened the door, flanked by two large bricks masquerading as prepubescent boys. 

“Is it true then?” He asked enthusiastically, staring at Harry with an excited expression. “I heard Harry Potter was in this cabin. With a Weasley, no less.” He finished with a smirk directed at the redhead. Harry stared at Malfoy with a not insignificant amount of loathing, as his mind flashed back to a banishing charm sending him to what should have been certain death.   
“It’s nice to meet you, Potter. I’m Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. And this is Crabbe, and Goyle.” He said, indicating his two goons. Harry inclined his head at them politely, saying nothing.  
Malfoy, with a cocky smirk, continued, undeterred by his target’s lack of reaction. “I heard you were in this cabin, Potter, and I came here to rescue you. We were worried about you, you see. You might go about making friends with the…wrong sort.” He said, with a pointed look at the Weasel. 

Harry’s eyebrows drew together as he balefully considered his former friends. Was Malfoy always this blatantly obvious? He certainly wasn’t being as subtle as Harry remembered. Disappointing, to say the least. And that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that Drake was essentially trying to get Harry to capitulate to him. If he let Draco boss him around like this, he’d lose all credibility, and quickly. And whilst Harry wanted to have his mate back, he couldn’t go along like some common foot soldier like Crabbe or Goyle. No, he had to prove he was a leader in his own right, and that he bowed to nobody. However, he couldn’t afford to alienate Drake either. After all, he had to spend the next seven years with him, not to mention he had to prise the lad from underneath his father’s gold-filigreed boot.   
To that end, he started talking calmly, affecting something of an aristocratic tone as he attempted to chart a middle course between the Scylla and Charybdis of Ron and Drake. “Well, starting from the top – Yes, it is true, it is me, Harry Potter. Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Malfoy, truly a pleasure. Please, call me Harry, I do hope we’ll be friends no matter our houses, although I suspect we both know where you are going, Draco. And, to answer your implied question, yes, I understand I’m making friends with a Weasley. I see no shame in making friends with one of the most pure families in Britain, to be quite honest. I’d ask you to join us, but, as you can seem our cabin is a little full at the moment I’m afraid, so perhaps we could continue our…robust dialogue at a later time?” He finished smoothly, with a welcoming smile at his best-friend-turned-traitor.

Malfoy hesitated, unsure of how to continue. His father had specifically told him to make friends with the last Potter, and to bring him over to the right way of thinking. Now, however, it was unclear whether he could fulfil either objective. Secretly, he had hoped Potter would try to argue with him. Then, at least, he wouldn’t have to share Father with the precious Boy-Who-Lived. Instead, however, he hadn’t done enough make himself an enemy or a friend. Without further intelligence, Malfoy was left with only one option.  
“Of course, Po…Harry. I look forward to seeing you again soon.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked off, back into the corridor, presumably to rejoin his pureblood compatriots further up the train.   
After he left, Harry looked at the group, as he felt their perception of him beginning to shift from ‘confident’ to ‘arrogant’. “Sorry about that,” he began. “that Malfoy seems a bit of a cad, if I’m being honest, but he’s a Malfoy, so I can’t very well be rude to him, especially if I’m spending the next few years with him.”   
Satisfied with the answer to their unasked question, conversation began again, as Hermione extolled the virtues of The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, much to the chagrin of the wholly unprepared Ron Weasley. Harry settled back in, withdrawing into himself a little. He hated to admit it, but seeing Malfoy again had brought up a whole slew of emotions he’d rather keep buried. He couldn’t honestly say he hated Drake, not really. They had spent far too much time together to hate him. And he understood why Draco had tried to kill him. He always did yearn far too much for his father’s approval, and Harry always knew it would get Draco into trouble one day. He just didn’t expect that he would be that trouble. On the other hand, however, the side of Draco he had just seen wasn’t exactly endearing, and, the more he thought about it, the more he remembered similar incidents from first year, when the young, inexperienced and insecure Harry Potter had done whatever it took to keep his first friend. Including…guiltily, he snuck a glance over at Hermione, who was involved in a discussion about some trivial application of the Lumos spell. He didn’t like the feeling of guilt that gnawed at his stomach, that familiar discomfort that had plagued him ever since second year.   
As he fell back into his reverie, he dimly became aware that somebody was talking to him.  
“Harry?”  
“Hmm..wha?”  
“Harry! What do you think?” A bossy voice came from opposite him.   
“What? What do I think about what, Hermione?”  
“All this You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rot. I mean, you…you killed him, right? Do you call him by his name? Honestly, he’s been dead for a decade, why don’t people just say his name?”   
Harry frowned. It was a reasonable question a muggleborn, he supposed. They just didn’t get it, not this young, anyway. It took him a few years to really understand. To understand that the knowledge that anybody, anywhere who spoke out against the Dark Lord was at risk, that anybody who stood in his way would perish, that his victory seemed inevitable, and with that victory would come change and bloodshed unlike anything ever seen. That didn’t just change people. It changed society. But, he couldn’t expect some 11 year old, however smart, to understand that. So, he went with his second, semi-honest answer.  
“I just call him the Dark Lord. No need to rock the boat. Most people lost somebody in the war, or know somebody who did. We’ve no need for digging up the past.” He explained patiently to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t turn this into a thing and ruin her reputation irreparably.  
“Oh…well…okay then.” She said, subsiding into an awkward silence between the two of them before Parvarti brought out a pack of Exploding Snap from her pocket.   
\---------  
Several hours later, a group of first years, changed into their formal robes and nursing their slightly singed hands, clambered out from the train onto Hogsmeade station, chatting amicably as they wandered towards Hagrid, who rose above the sea of students like a lighthouse.   
“Oh, ‘ello ‘Arry!” He cried as he shone his lantern towards the scrawny boy and his new friends. “Jus’ follow me, I’ll lead yer to the boats.” His face lit up with a big, gleeful smile as he turned around and began to join the tide of First Years heading to the boats, his bulk carving a path through the crowd that Harry and his cohort hurried in the wake of. As they reached the docks Harry couldn’t help but marvel at the stunning night sky. It looked identical to the one he experienced this same day five years ago. The stars twinkled like Dumbledore’s eyes, and the moon reflected off the black surface of the lake, creating a shimmering sheen that bewitched the eye.   
“4 to a boat, 4 students to a boat, please!” a friendly voice boomed, as the group turned to look at one another, trying to work out who would be excised from the group.   
“So…we’ll obviously be together.” Parvarti said, protectively holding onto her sister’s hand.  
Harry nodded, ready to take control of the situation. He’d had an entire train ride to think about it, after all.   
“Alright, Ron, Hermione, you two go on this boat,” he indicated an empty one, “and the rest of us will go on this one beside you, and we can keep people from being left out if we row side by side, yeah?”   
Ron and Hermine glanced nervously at each other, as they were paired with the person who was probably their last choice to go with. Harry knew this would cause some consternation between the two of them, but, really, he didn’t care all that much. With the enormity of the task in front of him, childish arguments and apprehension really didn’t rate too highly on his list of concerns. Besides…he didn’t want to sit with Hermione, as his companion with that pairing would be that guilty, hollow feeling in his stomach. As far as he was concerned, out of sight, out of mind was the best policy for now. Besides, who knows, maybe the two would form a friendship for the ages. He scoffed at the notion, before leading the way to the boats, as the number of free boats rapidly began to diminish.   
He clambered in to the wooden craft, trying to ignore the way the boat teetered dangerously as he shifted his wait. He had always wondered about the boats. Specifically, whether any of them had ever capsized, sending their occupants into the freezing waters below. He vaguely remembered that Creepy Creevey’s brother had come close to falling in, before being hauled back by one of his fellows, so he assumed it was possible. Hermione would probably know, he guessed. He’d ask afterwards. Maybe.   
“Ever’body in? Alright, lets go.” Hagrid’s booming voice echoed over the water, and the boats lurched forward at his command. Harry didn’t really listen. He was too busy staring up at the majesty of Hogwarts castle. Its sheer essence radiated power and magic, every facet of its being a marvel of magical engineering. More artefacts, tomes, and lost knowledge was contained in those walls, he suspected, than any one place in the rest of the world. Secret passageways, lost rooms, forgotten corridors, all his to explore for the next few years. In between avoiding basilisks, beating Quirrellmort, preventing the rise of the Dark Lord and ensuring Drake didn’t betray him again. Perhaps, he conceded, the passageways should take a backseat for now.   
Silence reigned in the boat as they drifted along the lake, as they drank in the ethereal beauty of the moment. TO Harry, it seemed as if the boat ride stretched on forever, lost in time, swallowed by the sheer wonder of this place. Although it stretched on forever, it seemed to end all too soon. As soon as the boat struck land, Harry knew. It was the end of the calm before the storm. From now on, there was only one thing that mattered. Victory.


	7. Chapter 7

The entrance hall was much the same as Harry remembered. With the Patils, Longbottom, Weasley and Hermione following him, he stood at the front of the group, not really bothering to listen to McGonagall’s lecture. It was certainly disconcerting, knowing how much had already changed. Malfoy, instead of being by his side, making fun of Weasley’s tired, worn robes, was somewhere at the back. Admittedly, he was probably still making fun of Weasley’s robes, but it worried him regardless. The small changes did set him to wondering though. How much had he already changed just in these few short hours? And what would that mean going forward?   
His ruminations were interrupted by the appearance of the Hogwarts ghosts, who went through their usual spiel that they went through every year. Harry just rolled his eyes and waited patiently for McGonagall to come back. Finally, the ghosts left, and McGonagall returned, her severe eyes looking over the new year. It was a tiny cohort, probably one of the smallest year groups in Hogwarts history. Understandably so. Not many people wanted to bring children into the world when their very existence was at risk. If Harry remembered correctly, however, the next year would more than make up for the scarcity of new students. Yes, there’d be Harry’s and Harriet’s aplenty next year.   
“We’re ready for you now, follow me.” McGonagall’s stern voice echoed around the chamber, as she opened the doors to the main hall.  
Harry could almost feel the hundreds of eyes searching for him, hungry faces desperate to gaze upon the face of the Boy-Who-Lived. A lucky few would probably catch sight of his scar, even hidden as it was beneath his fringe. As the new year walked into the hall, scattered whispers echoed in the hall, speculating, explaining, gossiping. Harry just ignored them. He’d heard it all before. He smirked a little as he heard a Weasley twin claim there was no way he’d go anywhere else but Gryffindor. Oh, how deliciously ironic. He couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces when he went to their arch-rivals. Meanwhile, Hermione was explain that the ceiling was enchanted to look like the night sky. Apparently, she learnt it from Hogwarts: A History. Harry sighed internally. He had hoped that his memories had exaggerated how much of a know-it-all she was. Apparently, he was mistaken.   
Meanwhile, the other students were nervously regarding an old, leathery hat that was frayed and worn more than any har had a right to be. Harry smiled at their confusion. In retrospect, it should have been obvious what it was. But, every year, without fail, the new students always faltered when confronted by the undeniable strangeness of the Sorting Hat. As he chuckled a little, a wide rip above the brim opened up, and the hat, to the consternation of the new First Years, began to sing. 

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,  
But don’t judge on what you see,  
I’ll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There’s nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can’t see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
If you’ve a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You’ll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don’t be afraid!  
And don’t get in a flap!  
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

With that finale, the cap subsided, to the cheers and claps of all four houses, united as one in their applause. It was funny, Harry considered, that the only time the four houses ever seemed truly united was in their support for an old piece of leather headwear.  
“Hannah, Abbot.” McGonagall read, as the blonde girl timidly stepped forward, sitting on the stool and sitting on the chair. After a few moments of deliberation, the hat gave its verdict.  
“Huffepuff!” it cried, to the applause and whistles of the badgers, who welcomed their newest member heartily.   
And so it went on, much the same as last time. Granger went to Gryffindor, Malfoy to Slytherin. No surprises there. Longbottom, of course, managed to con his way into Gryffindor, leaving with the Sorting Hat still on his head before being called back with glowing red cheeks. Parvarti went to Gryffindor, whilst Padma went to Ravenclaw. Finally, the moment of truth came.   
“Harry Potter.” McGonagall said, her normally stoic voice catching on the name.  
Immediately, whispers filled the hall as Harry stepped up to the stool, each house waiting with bated breath to see where the hero of the wizarding world would go. Harry, of course, sat down confidently. When you know the future, it was hard to be apprehensive, he thought as the hat came down onto his head.   
As Harry shut his eyes, he could hear the hat’s raspy old voice whispering in his mind. “Hmm….well, aren’t you an interesting one, Mr. Potter. Plenty of angst and fear, more than I would expect from one of your age…and talent, yes, such talent. And your knowledge! You are a very impressive wizard, Mr. Potter. But, the question remains…where to put you.”  
“I think we both know where I’m going.” Harry communicated confidently, trying not to show his sudden uncertainty.  
“Do we, Mr. Potter? Do we indeed? I can see your ambition, your thirst to prove yourself. Such burning zeal to succeed. But, there’s more to you, I think, than what first appears.”  
“Really?” Harry replied, with an affected disinterest.  
“Yes, of course! There is really only one choice for you, child. Bravery, courage, determination to make Godric himself jealous, strong sense of right and wrong. Better be…. Gryffindor!”  
As the cheers and cries of joy became audible to Harry once more, his eyes widened to an almost comical degree. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t possible. This was all just a bad dream. Surely, he must still be on the Hogwarts express. Perhaps he had drifted off? Yes, that must be it. He pinched himself. Nothing. He pinched himself again, harder this time. Still nothing. He looked about the hall, at the faces full of mirth and cheer, staring at him expectantly, as if this was always meant to happen. As if this was the way things were meant to be. He was dimly aware of the Weasley twins shouting obnoxiously. “We got Potter, we got Potter!”. Those idiots. Those fools, those troublemakers were…now his housemates. As if in a trance, he stood, put the hat back on the stool, and walked robotically to the table gaudily decorated with red and gold, ignoring the congratulations being shouted at him. It was all so wrong. Where were the whispers, the confusion pervading the hall? Where were the crestfallen faces of the other three houses, shocked that their hero could go into the dark house? Not a single person in the entire hall was accusing him of being the Dark Lord, reborn into the body of the dead baby Harry. Instead, all he could see were smiling faces lining the hall, except for the Slytherin’s of course, who clapped politely and stared balefully at the Golden Boy. As he sat down next to Parvarti and Longbottom, steadfastly refusing to look at Hermione across the table, he couldn’t help but think about all the plans that just went up in smoke. 

Sorry for the short chapter folks, I just didn’t want to keep you all waiting for the moment of truth – I feel like I’ve prevaricated long enough. But, now we’re done with the big twist in our hero’s plan, and I’m looking forward to getting into the meat of the story in the next few days. Hopefully I’ll have another chapter to post tomorrow, but I must admit I’m not entirely sure where I’m planning to go from here – especially regarding pairings (admittedly that’s a long term proposition but I’d like to start laying groundwork early on). If there are any specific plot-points or pairings you want, be sure to let me know in a review! Furthermore, I’m planning to go back in the next day or so and edit the earlier chapters, especially the first one. Also, please don’t be afraid to point out any errors or shortcomings in my writing, I’m trying to improve my writing and can take any punishment you want to give me, so long as its constructive.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione stared, spellbound, at the front of the hall, her hands clenching and unclenching as she, along with the rest of the school, waited with bated breath for the Sorting Hat to cry out a name. It had been almost a full two minutes since Harry had put the hat on, and the tension had risen to a ridiculous height. You could hear a pin drop in the hall as everybody silently gawked at the spectacle of the Boy-Who-Lived. It was rare that a sorting lasted more than a minute, and Dumbledore himself had only taken a minute and a half to be sorted. Hermione, of course, had her reasons to be invested in Harry’s sorting. She had, naturally, gone and made an utter bollocks of meeting the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived himself, and although he had been nothing but polite to her (because of course he was), she had no illusions that at best she was considered an acquaintance. For about the thousandth time, she mentally kicked herself for her first words to the Wizarding World’s equivalent of a royal prince being to talk about how she had read about his orphaning. She had amends to make, and they’d be easiest if he was sorted into Gryffindor. Speaking of which, she hadn’t gotten around to wondering how she’d even gotten into Gryffindor in the first place! She had never thought of herself as a particularly brave or noble person, and her natural bookishness had suggested that Ravenclaw was the only house for her. But, the sorting hat had been insistent, and since it was more than a thousand years old, she had figured it might know what it was on about. The hat, according to Hogwarts: A History, had been enchanted from one of Godric Gryffindor’s very own wardrobes, and-

“Gryffindor!” The Sorting Hat yelled, startling Hermione out of her spiral into trivia as the hall lit up in cheers. Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, although they didn’t get the boy themselves, were happy enough to see him go to Gryffindor. Two older boys who, judging by their red hair, were brothers of her boat-ride companion Ron, started chanting “We got Potter!” like a pair of football hooligans, a sentiment that was echoed by the shouts emanating from other parts of the table. Judging from the vaguely reluctant way Harry walked towards the table, she wasn’t the only one a little put off by the intolerable display. She looked a little closer at the black haired boy. She could have sworn his eyes were glassy and distant. Odd. But, then again, he’d had probably one of the most meaningful days of his life, and was just sorted into his parents house, so she supposed it was understandable.  
“Isn’t this exciting?” A squeal of excitement came from her left, as a girl (Brown?) tugged at her cloaks and gestured to their newest housemate. “Ohh, I bet he’s all brave and smart and funny!” She squealed again, making Hermione’s ears ring as it caught a frequency Hermione fervently believed only dogs should hear. By way of reply she nodded mutely, taken aback by the girl’s enthusiasm. Parvarti, however, was not so shaken, and responded in kind. Hermione just tuned out their vapidity and watched Harry slowly wander over and sit down between Neville and Parvarti, giving only a muttered greeting to them as he slumped onto the table.

Nausea. Pure, unadulterated nausea. There were plenty of other emotions roiling around, begging for his attention, but nausea was the one that stood out the most of Harry James Potter, newest member of Gryffindor house. Not bothering to listen to the final few people left to be sorted, he just numbly stared into the middle distance, ignoring his new housemates talking amongst themselves. Across from him, Hermione was having a polite chat with Neville, whilst his neighbour Parvarti seemed to be getting along famously with Lavender Brown in a highly intellectual discussion about Quick-Slick hair gel. As Dumbledore began his speech, droning on about certain death and the Forbidden Forest, Harry just looked longingly at the table, forlornly waiting to drown his sorrows in whatever food was available. Finally, Dumbledore finished with some nonsense that sounded better suited to a children’s book than the second most powerful wizard of the age, and suddenly, great piles appeared on the table. As he piled his plate high with sausage, bacon, steak and potatoes, he couldn’t help but glance subtly at the most powerful wizard of the age. Well, more correctly, he surreptitiously looked at the face that it currently inhabited. Quirinius Quirrell was timidly picking at a leg of chicken, avoiding all eye contact with his companion, Severus. If not for the all too familiar prickling pain of his scar, Harry could have been fooled into thinking Quirrell was just another harmlessly idiotic defence teacher. Looking back to his meal, he took a mouthful of bacon and considered how precisely he could expose Quirrell now. He didn’t know McGonagall all too well, but from what he did know she was a strict disciplinarian, more likely to give a student a stern dressing-down than an investigation if they were to raise issues with a teacher (unless it was Severus, of course.). And although he could still go to Snape like he originally planned to, without the prolonged exposure they’d had to each other in Slytherin house, he was unsure how Snape would react. He shook his head, before moodily spearing a sausage with his fork. It was just all so very bloody difficult. 

Going up to Gryffindor Tower proved to be something of an experience for Harry. Whilst he had heard about Tower, he had never actually had any cause (or desire) to go up there himself. No, he much preferred the cool, classy vaults of Slytherin to whatever ungovernable madness the Gryffindors liked. Whilst he didn’t find himself in the mood to make much conversation with his fellows, he had perked up somewhat upon learning that Percy Weasley was going to be managing them. Harry had always had quite a bit of respect for the prefect, since he was one of the few Gryffindors not outrageously biased against Slytherin. At least he was fair, if a bit of a stickler for the rules. Ironic, considering his brother’s flagrant disregard for any and all rules that could conceivably hinder their pranks. Then again, perhaps the three were the reasons for each other’s behaviour. Harry, without any real siblings to speak of, wouldn’t have the foggiest idea.   
Finally, they reached a portrait of a rather big boned woman, that looked at them critically.  
“This, students, is the entrance to the tower, guarded by the Fat Lady. The password is currently Caput Draconis.” Percy explained to the wide-eyed students, some of whom were still looking back longingly at the way back to the Grand Staircase. With that, Percy turned to the portrait and repeated the password.   
“Enter.” The Fat Lady said magnanimously, swinging ocean to reveal a cozy looking living room, with big couches and a large hearth.   
“No gawking, Firsties, follow me.” Percy said as he chivvied them inside.   
The first thing Harry noticed was how much smaller it was than the Slytherin dungeons. The Slytherin common room was at least double the size, with nooks and crannies aplenty. This common room was far more…open. There was little privacy to be found here, nowhere one could discuss secrets, plans, and trades without being visible to anybody with a good eye and an open ear. He shivered unconsciously, despite the warmth of the room. The thought of being so exposed was…discomfiting, to say the least.   
Percy, ignorant of his charge’s existential observations, continued with his explanations. “The girl’s dormitories are on your right,” he gestured to a spiralling stairway that went both up and down the tower, “and boy’s are on your left.” He gestured to an identical staircase opposite the first. “No boys in the girls dormitories and vice versa, first year’s dorms are on the lower level, and the older you are the higher you rise. No need to worry about your possessions, they’ve already been brought up. If you need any help, please ask a prefect,” he gestured at his prefect badge with a hint of smugness, before continuing “if none are available, ask an older student. Classes begin tomorrow, you should all have your schedules, if you do not or believe an error has been made, talk to a prefect or our Head of House, Professor McGonagall. I’ve also been instructed to remind you that under no circumstances whatsoever should you go into the locked room on the third floor the Headmaster spoke of earlier. If that’s all, I bid you all a good night, and welcome to the Gryffindor family.” He finished with an air of finality, before sending them off to bed. 

When Harry entered his lodgings with the other boys, he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the beds. Given the size of the Gryffindor common room, he had half expected a spartan affair with single beds more suited to the SAS than teenagers. But to their credit, the Gryffindor dormitory looked quite cosy, despite the garish red that blanketed the room. Hedwig hooted at him in greeting, startling out of his amateur review of the interior design. He crossed over the room and claimed the bed closest to the big window, grabbing Hedwig’s cage and stowing it on the sill.   
“Alright lads,” Harry started, turning around to face his companions, who were still working out who’s bed was who’s, “time to set some ground rules. No loud noises during the night unless we’re all doing something together.” Everybody nodded, although Finnegan seemed somewhat reluctant. “Also, Hedwig will be coming and going as she pleases from the room, anybody else with owls are free to join her. She won’t make too much noise though, I promise. I reckon any arguments between us regarding the dorm after tonight should be voted on. Oh, and no messing with people’s trunks or possessions, unless somebody’s left their undies on the ground or something, yeah?” More nods. “Alright, anything else?” Harry finished. A few shakes of their heads. “Alright then, I’m pretty shattered, so, I’m going to sleep.”   
With that, he kicked off his shoes, opened Hedwig’s cage, and threw himself onto the bed, testing its springs. It was comfy. Very comfy. In fact, although he was loathe to admit, it was far comfier than his old bunk in the dungeons, which was entirely built for appearances and whilst being far superior to the cupboard or Dudley’s second room, lacked a certain…homeliness to it. That very thought was his final conscious one as, his head buried in an assortment of pillow, he drifted off to sleep. 

“Ssshhh, it’s him!”  
“Did you see his face?”  
“Did you see his scar?”  
Harry rolled his eyes as he tucked into his bacon and eggs, ignoring the whispers about him that flew up and down the tables at breakfast. He had woken early, keen to avoid the whispers that he knew would be flying thick and fast on the first morning. However, breakfast was not particularly high on his list of priorities. Instead, he had spent the pre-dawn hour tapping on the stones of the Gryffindor dormitory, which would be the beginning and headquarters for his search for the Chamber of Secrets. The rationale was that Salazar Slytherin, being, well, a Slytherin, had decided to spite Godric by putting the Chamber under his charge’s noses. After all, the Gryffindors were not known for their curiosity, or their thoughtfulness. If there was a place in the school where a hidden chamber could be undisturbed for more than a thousand years, it wasn’t hard to believe that it was somewhere in Gryffindor Tower. So, his knuckles sore from an hour of tapping on stone walls, he had finally ventured down to the Great Hall, hoping to find it completely empty. He was, of course, disappointed to find that a few dozen students had gotten there before him, a high proportion of which had began subtly staring at him as soon as he had entered the hall. Ignoring them, he’d merely piled some breakfast onto his plate, and sat across from Percy, one of the few Gryffindors who had gotten up so early.  
Percy looked up at him curiously as Harry sat across from him, smiling innocently at the Prefect.  
“Mr. Potter, I’m glad to see you’ve found your way to the hall so quickly. Most firsties take weeks to get here this quickly.” He said kindly, albeit with a little condescension in his tone. Still, Harry took the compliment in the spirit it was offered, and responded in kind.  
“Well, I’m not most first years, am I? I’ve something of a reputation I should probably do my best to live up to, I guess.” He explained. “Actually, that’s the reason I wanted to talk to you. As the person most suited to be prefect, I must assume that you’re probably the smartest person in your year, yeah?” He said graciously, trying not to lay the flattery on too thick.  
Percy looked at him strangely, trying not to look too arrogant. “I mean…well, I suppose I’m somewhere up the top, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything. Before you ask, I’m not going to give you advanced instruction or anything Potter, I don’t care who you are, you aren’t getting any special treatment in my house. The rules will apply to you as much as they do anyone else, is that clear?” He said firmly, locking eyes with Harry and refusing to look away.  
Good. He was right in thinking the prefect had plenty of steel in him. Truth be told, he liked it when people had a code and stuck to it. It was one of the few things he had admired about some Gryffindors. Unfortunately, most of them were all too happy to break that code when it came to the rivalry with their arch-rivals.   
“ I was hoping you would say that, I was going to ask that you ensured that nobody treated me differently. I get enough from that from people as it is, I’d rather not have the rules do it too.” Harry replied silkily, returning Percy’s gaze to let him know that the statement was genuine. “I was also going to ask you about something else…” He continued, trailing off at the end to see the prefect’s reaction.  
Percy, taken slightly aback by the fact that his house’s newest celebrity wasn’t asking for special treatment, cocked his head slightly at the small, dark haired boy. “Well, Potter, so long as your question doesn’t enable you to make trouble I see no reason why I shouldn’t answer.” He finished, as he unconsciously fiddled with his silver badge.   
Harry turned up his innocent factor to eleven, endeavouring to make himself look as small and lost as possible. “Well…its just that, I grew up in the muggle world, see? So I dunno much about Hogwarts other than it’s really old and cool. I was hoping you could point me in the direction of as many books about the history of Hogwarts as possible, if that’s okay?” He mumbled, turning his eyes down so as to look embarrassed by his ignorance. He wasn’t entirely faking it, either. His first year had been so hectic and overwhelming he had never gotten the chance to read about Hogwarts proper, and although he had, of course, read Hogwarts: A History he had never gone into any depth about the castle other than his search for rooms and secret passages.  
Percy considered for a moment, before nodding. “Very well, Potter, I can help with that.” He assented, before shooting off a list of a half dozen books Harry had never heard of before. “That should be enough, I think, to catch you up.” He flashed an encouraging smile at Harry, before scooping up a spoonful of baked beans as a way of dismissal.  
Harry gave a muttered thanks, and moved down the table a little, eating quickly so as to finish before too many people arrived. When he finished, he began the long journey back to the dormitory. After a few awkward encounters with fans and a particularly grating argument with Peeves, her finally got back to the tower, muttering a few acknowledgements to Seamus and Dean, who were lounging about on the couch. A little grumpily, he stalked down the stairs, bumping shoulders with a Weasley twin in a rare encounter where they went attached at the hip. As he entered his quarters, he shot a baleful look at the youngest male Weasley, who lay snoring on the bed, and probably would be for a while yet. He’d probably be late, but it served him right. He’d have to grow up. Harry threw open his trunk, to pick up the items he needed for the day. A few lengths of parchment and his quill, which had migrated in his trunk someway from its original position, presumably during the night. He made a grab for it…and immediately recoiled when a jet black spurt of ink exploded from the feathers to coat his face in a sticky, oily substance that smelt like a ghoul crossed with a senile Hippogriff. Harry fell back with a startled cry, falling on the floor, clawing at his face in a futile attempt to get the slimy mixture off.  
“Oh no, Gred, I think ickle Harry has had himself a little accident.” Chirped a sickeningly innocent voice.  
“Oh, Forge, what a shame, our resident hero’s in trouble already?” Replied another, as Harry lay back on the ground, staring balefully at the ceiling as the play continued.  
“Well, I suppose..”  
“That, given our status as his housemates…”  
“We should do our best…”  
“To help!” They chorused in unison, as two grinning, red haired face came into view.   
“Scourgify!” One of them shouted, and, like magic, the liquid was gone.   
Harry sighed, before his eyebrows came together like two thunderclouds. He was pissed. With a no small amount of agility, he jumped up, before turning his baleful stare on the other Weasleys.   
“Would you mind,” he said with a polite coldness that belied his anger. “explaining to me, precisely what you think you’re doing.”   
“Well..”  
“Percy did mention you wanted to be treated like everybody else…”  
“And, of course, nobody is safe from us….”  
“So we decided to give you…”  
“our own little introduction to the house, didn’t we, brother of mine?”  
“Oh yes indeed, brother dearest. A little initiation into the family, as it were.”  
Harry sighed, and massaged the bridge of his nose below his glasses. He understood now. It was their way of letting him know they considered him the same of everybody else, a plan Percy presumably accidentally put into motion. No special treatment for the Boy-Who-Lived from them. He wasn’t sure to appreciate the gesture or try to curse them into next week. Still, he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of letting them know how much it had royally pissed him off.   
“How…hospitable of you. I can already feel the warm glow of family surrounding me like a cloak.” He said sarcastically, although with a smile to let them know he was (mostly) joking. “Truly, it’s very kind, I’m looking forward to see what you come up with next, although, hopefully, in a less firsthand way.”  
The twins looked at each other for a moment, before cracking a synchronised smile.  
“I told you he wouldn’t mind, Gred, our ickle Harrykin’s better than that.”  
“Right you are brother of mine, right you are! Well, we should let him get back to it, the quill should be working as intended, and we shouldn’t take up too much of a celebrity’s time. We’ll be seeing you later Harry, and watch out for Snape!” With that, they turned around and walked out of the room, leaving a pouting Harry behind.


	9. Chapter 9

This chapter has been a bit of a pain to write because I spent a few hours trying to suss out the timetable of first year, only to conclude that trying to rationally analyse what subjects are when is an exercise in futility. Instead, first day counts as an orientation day for all classes (which ignores the canon of the Philosopher’s/Sorcerer’s Stone in which the first Potions class is on a Friday morning). My apologies to any fanboys/girls who have taken it upon themselves to critique any departure from the books, please just put it down to the magic of time travel or somesuch.   
As he walked through the heavy wooden door into the swirling miasma of the Potions classroom, Harry couldn’t help but think about how the day so far had been as boring as he’d expected. Whilst his first first day had been overrun with whimsy and fancy at how exciting magic was, how different everything was, and a general aura of “couldn’t get further from 4 Privet Drive”, his second first day was proving to be incredibly dull. Apart from the “excitement” of getting pranked by the Weasley twins, Harry’s day had been one long exercise in patience and restraint. Firstly, he had to be patient during the interminable lectures every teacher seemed to give about how he should never mess around with magic, to put safety first at all times and to always ensure they had proper supervision when performing magic of any kind. Necessary as it was, Harry spent his time jotting down the homework he knew or guessed would be assigned at the end of each lesson, when he wasn’t doodling on his parchment. Magic, of course, was not used the first day for the first years, as instead they were introduced to the subjects. He also had to use a good deal of restraint to not start hexing a few gawkers who seemed to spend their time in between classes stalking him to get a sight of the fabled scar. After the third such incident, Ron Weasley had taken it upon himself to shoo away any well-wishers and sycophants, which suited them both just fine.   
In Herbology, Harry had made certain to partner himself up with Neville, remembering the boy’s frankly terrifying level of skill at the subject. Sure enough, Neville impressed Professor Sprout so much by the end of the first lesson he had scored 15 house points, after naming every plant in the First Year’s greenhouse. The look on his face was actually rather heartwarming, he’d been so pleased to have achieved something other than mediocrity Harry suspected that the professor had made herself an ally for life. Harry, of course, had given him a big smile that he hoped had said “friendly and proud” and not “aspiring serial killer”.   
After Herbology, the abomination that was Defence against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts in 1991 had begun. After walking through the door, the smell of garlic had assailed Harry’s nostrils so violently he’d been tempted to pull the turban off of Quirrell’s head just so he didn’t need to spend another second in the room. But, deciding that the lives of his classmates were probably worth a few hours of discomfort for the next few weeks until he could gather enough “evidence” to question Quirrell, he’d instead taken a seat next to Weasley, who seemed ecstatic to bask in the light of Harry’s star. Quirrell, had, naturally, stuttered his way through his speech on the why and how of Defence, managing to convey an impressively little amount of information in the large amount of time available to him. Harry had spent the lesson poking fun at the turban that the palest man on earth insisted on wearing, ignoring the annoyed glances Hermione sent his way for daring to impugn a teacher’s authority. He had, of course, missed the way her face had fell when she heard the great Harry Potter speaking ill of any teacher. Because why would she have anything in common with the famous Boy-Who-Lived?  
When the class had ended, Harry had spent a few minutes wondering whether he should skip History of Magic entirely and instead go searching for the Chamber. It wasn’t like Binns had anything useful to say anyway. He vacillated for a few minutes longer, but, figuring that he didn’t want to attract undue attention on the first day, he trudged all the way to the classroom. When he reached the door, however, he found himself trapped in the definition of a first day conundrum. Arriving a minute or two late to class, and all the seats were full. Except for one, of course. Hermione Granger sat at the very front and right of the class. To her right was the wall and to her left…an empty desk. The only empty desk left in the class, as far as he could tell. Harry edged back away from the doorframe, then stopped. In fact, he’d had to put a hand to his mouth to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. A (mentally) 15 year old teenager, preparing to run and hide from an 11 year old schoolgirl? The whole situation was comedically absurd. It was insane! But then, why did he still have a almost pathological desire to turn around, walk away, and never look upon the face of Granger again? His mind had flashed back to those vacant, oh so terribly empty eyes, staring up at him accusingly. “Why?” They whispered sadly. “Why didn’t you stop them? This is your fault.” 

Harry shook his head angrily. There was no point in dwelling on the past. Then, an uncontrollable snort flew from his mouth, combining with his hand to make an wet, raspberry-like sound that could only be described as a drinking elephant getting high on bath salts. Dwelling in the past? That was precisely what he was doing. As he recovered from his moment of weakness, he’d looked up to see that the entirety of Binns’ classroom, eager for any break from the droning lecture, staring at him through the doorway, with a mix of confusion, amusement, and scepticism. Great, he had thought. Now he had no choice. Trying to keep at least semblance of his dignity, he had strolled into the classroom, his back straight, and his attention split between trying not to make eye contact and keeping his cheeks from becoming a substitute for Rudolph’s nose. He’d sat next to Hermione, hoping that her almost fanatical devotion to authority would stop her from talking to her. She didn’t say a word, and barely even looked at him, but his stomach had sunk like a lead balloon regardless, churning unbearably in that guilty feeling that had become ever so familiar over years of sleepless nights.   
Fortunately, the lecture had passed mercifully quickly, a rare departure from the majority of Binns’ lessons, and Harry had scrambled from the classroom, the rest of the class following in his wake. Thus, he had finally found himself walking into the comfortingly familiar miasma of Potions, his absolute favourite class from his first time through. Looking about, he saw exactly what he had been hoping to see. Draco Malfoy, sitting without a partner, waiting for somebody (presumably Theo or Pansy) to come join him. With a smile on his face, Harry crossed over to him, ignoring the curious looks he was getting from Crabbe and Goyle.   
“Malfoy! Mind if I sit here?” He said exuberantly, an encouraging smile on his face.  
Malfoy stared at him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “Potter! I...” He looked behind Harry for a moment, clearly searching for someone. “As much as I would like that, I’m afraid I…ahhh, you see, here’s the thing.” He said, stalling for time as more people entered the classroom. “I..well, I promised,” his eyes lit up as he saw somebody behind Harry. “Theo! I promised Theo, here, that I’d be his partner for Potions. Sorry, Potter.” He said with a smirk that seemed vaguely apologetic, as Theo sat down next to him, noticing the weird energy of the conversation.   
Harry pulled a pained half-smile, hoping that it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Course. I understand.” He stood awkwardly for moment, not knowing what else to say. “I…umm…yeah.” He said lamely, before turning around, trying not to let any tears come from his eyes.  
“What was the bloody golden boy doing talking to you?” He heard Theo whisper behind him as he walked robotically to other side of the classroom, where the Gryffindors seemed to be congregating. Harry just shook his head sadly. He had suspected Drake would keep away from him, not wanting to be associated with any Gryffindor, especially one so firmly tied to anti-dark side of politics. But, even prepared as he was, the rejection still hurt, even knowing the way their friendship turned out. It was hard to shake the ties that bound them, even if Draco didn’t remember them. Truth be told, Harry was surprised he wasn’t angrier at the boy who had betrayed and tried to murder him. But, whenever he looked at the blond haired lad, he only felt a cold sense of loss, overlaying a well of sadness. Still, he thought, standing up a little straighter. He owed it to the Malfoy-That-Was to do his best to save the Malfoy-That-Is.   
Dully, he realised that he’d been standing for a little while now, and was starting to draw curious looks from his classmates. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around for a place to sit. Finnegan and Thomas had partnered up, as had Brown and Parvarti. Ron had sat next to Hermione, presumably to leech off of her presumed ability. That left...  
Oh.  
Oh shit.  
Neville gave him a nervous smile as Harry reluctantly sat down next to him, almost forcing himself to sit down on the seat. If there was a single person Harry wanted to sit next to less in Potions, he couldn’t think of one. Neville Longbottom was famously the most historically, absurdly incompetent Potions student Hogwarts had with its walls in centuries. Barely a class went by without a calamity of some sort befalling the round faced child. Now, Harry Potter was in the firing line. Brilliant.   
As Harry nervously stewed, the class’s attention was pulled to the door to the classroom, as Snape made his usual flamboyant entrance, his black cloak trailing behind him. He didn’t say a word as he strode up to the front of the class, where he began to read off the register without hesitation. As he reached Harry’s name, he gave an ominous sneer.  
“Ah, yes.” He said softly. “Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity.”   
His snide aside finished, he finished calling the roll, before clasping his hands behind his back as an air of expectancy filled the class.   
“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making.” He began with his speech, that Harry had learned he started every new first year with. “as there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe it is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses …I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”   
Subconsciously, Harry leaned forward eagerly, eager to get started on the first practical bit of class he’d had all day. Really, it was lucky that the Professor put little value on lectures on safety (as if that wasn’t self evident), or his day might have been a total bust. After all, it didn’t look like Charms or Astronomy after this would be much different from the rest of the boredom-inducing first day lectures.  
“Potter!” Snape snapped, surprising the entire class with the tone of his voice. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”   
Immediately, Hermione’s arm shot up into the air, with no hesitation. Harry shot an angry look to the back of her head for a moment. Did she think he was so stupid he couldn’t answer? Or was she so desperate to please that she’d like to steal somebody else’s chance to impress? Harry tilted his head thoughtfully to the side for a moment, figuring that answering immediately would look a little suspicious.  
“Would it be part of a Draught of Living Death, sir?” He answered, trying not to sound either too smug or too nervous.   
Snape raised his eyebrow at the spawn of his most hated enemy and his most beloved friend. “A good guess, Potter. If I told you to find a bezoar, where would you look?” He queried silkily, the fire behind his eyes clearly visible to somebody who knew him as well as Harry. Unnoticed by the entire class, Hermione’s hand raised a little higher, her hand quivering with excitement.   
Harry decided to be a little faster on this one. “The stomach of a goat, sir, or any good first aid bag.”   
Snape’s lip curled in either distaste or amusement. “A point from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter.” He said delicately, before shooting off another question before anybody had a chance to object. “What is the difference between monkshood and Wolfsbane?”  
Hermione’s hand stretched so high that Harry was worried she’d pop her shoulder out of its socket. Harry cocked his head for a moment, trying to strike a balanced medium between arrogant know-it-all and timid dunderhead. “Wouldn’t they be the same thing, sir? Pretty sure some people call it aconite as well.”  
Harry cold have sworn Snape’s lips curled even more, although he still couldn’t tell (and he was pretty sure nobody except Severus himself knew) if it was in distaste, contempt, or amusement. The room was silent for a moment as Snape considered. He nodded slightly. “Ten points to Gryffindor, Potter.” He said finally, before snapping at the rest of the class. “And why aren’t the rest of you writing this down? Five points from Gryffindor!” He said, a hint of more than his usual angst in his tone as he began writing the ingredients for a simple cure for boils on the blackboard. When his back was turned, Harry sighed in relief. Well that’s the first obstacle cleared, he thought. But now…he turned to Longbottom, who stared at the blackboard uncomprehendingly. This would be an interesting lesson.   
By the end of the lesson, having avoided a few near-explosions on Neville’s part, they had turned in a red-pink affair that, whilst not up to Harry’s usual ‘O’ standards, would probably be enough to garner them an ‘EE’, assuming Snape wasn’t going to deliberately flunk them because of Harry’s dad. He thought back to when he had first learnt about Severus’s history with his father. Admittedly, Harry had been a little shocked to hear how badly James Potter had treated Professor Snape, even if the man could be a little high-handed and cold sometimes. It had sorely shaken his perceptions of his parents, even though he had heard good things about his father from Sirius and many others. But, he had surmised at the end of an Occlumency session last year (or five years in the future), everyone had considered Slytherins fair game at Hogwarts at the time. Understandable, considering there was a civil war on. Still, his frosty reception from Snape for the first few weeks had certainly made more sense after viewing that particular memory in his third lesson.   
“H-Harry…could I talk to you for a moment?” Neville asked timidly as he followed Harry out of the Potions classroom, snapping Harry out of his trip down memory lane.  
Harry rolled his eyes to the heavens, but acquiesced, slowing down and allowing Neville to scamper along and catch up with him. “What is it Neville?” Harry said coldly, irritation showing in his voice.  
Neville cringed a little, before replying. “I..I just wanted to say sorry about before, with the porcupine quills. I know I’m hopeless at it, just like everything else here.” He explained, with a sadness so familiar to Harry that his heart did go out to the boy a little, even if he was an incompetent bumbler. “I promise I’ll do better next time, though, if we’re partners again, if that’s okay with you. Oh, and thanks for saving the potion for me. Hermione said that if you didn’t intervene the potion would have exploded!” The round faced boy finished gratefully, his puppydog eyes gazing earnestly at Harry.  
Harry sighed. He was still irritated, but blowing up at the kid wouldn’t help anybody. Except, perhaps, his mood. – But no, he wouldn’t. As tempting as a raised voice was, his better half reined the temptation in. Instead, he comforted the boy. “It’s okay, Neville, really. Everybody makes mistakes. So long as you are willing and able to learn from them, I think we’ll be fine. Okay?” He finished with a smile, hoping that his irritation had not bled into his voice.   
It appeared not, since Neville gave a tentative smile back. “Thanks Harry! I promise I’ll do better! Really!” He said earnestly, his eyes without a trace of the guile Harry had spent five years searching for in his dealings with his old house.   
Harry nodded in reply. “See that you do. I know you have it in you to do better, Neville, you’ve just got to show everybody else that.” He said, trying to sound wise and sagelike.   
Neville looked at him doubtfully. “Really? Nobody else thinks that. Do you really think so?”  
“I know so, Neville. If you work hard, I’m sure you can do well. Trust me.”   
Neville looked at him again, his brown eyes wide. “I..I dunno. Thanks, but I don’t think so.” He said, his tone sorrowful. Then, he brightened up a little. “But I’ll try to do better. Thanks, Harry.” He nodded, and then walked off to Charms, leaving Harry far behind.

Sitting in the Gryffindor dorm at the end of the day, Harry couldn’t get that look Neville gave him out of his head. He hadn’t paid it much heed at the time, but, strangely, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The look that Neville had given him after Harry said he believed he could do better had been part pathetic amount of gratitude, part complete adoration, and part hopeful. It was as if the boy had never been never been praised before, and the look had struck far too close to home for Harry Potter. Quietly, as he absentmindedly petted Hedwig on the windowsill, he resolved to himself that if was going to give a chance to his traitorous best friend, he might as well give a chance to a well meaning bumbler.   
“Harry!” An enthusiastic Ron Weasley cried from the door, his face lit up with excitement. “C’mon, we need to get going! We can’t miss dinner the very first day!”   
Harry smiled, and stood up. He might as well give a chance to an insecure, desperate-to-please redhead as well. 

Sorry to have an author’s note at the start and end of the chapter, I just though I’d let people know that my update schedule is going from one short-ish chapter each day to a longer (3000 words-ish) chapter every second day. Hopefully I can keep up the pace! Thanks for reading, and please review or dm me if you have ideas, criticisms, comments or just want to chat!


	10. Chapter 10

Friday afternoon. The time of frenetic energy, where children would play, and teenagers would prepare to party. It was a time of joy, a time of carefree happiness, where the homework the weekend offered held no sway, and the finished week excited people to distraction and fancy. Harry had heard the Weasley twins telling Angelina Johnson about a pick-up quidditch match with the Hufflepuffs, to be followed by a team-only mixer to meet before tryouts began in the third week. In Slytherin, he knew, the first formal party was being held in one of the underground vaults. He shuddered unconsciously as he remembered his debut at the party. Sweating nervously, he had stumbled over his words, and shyly hid behind Draco’s expertise, unprepared for the veritable avalanche of schmoozing, trading, flattery and offers to dance. What had seemed second-nature to the purebloods had been so very alien to him that he had left the party 30 minutes early, to the chagrin of his best friend.  
Sighing, he zoned back in, looking down at the homework venomously. The Three Components of Mucus Ad Nauseum, the title read. Below it, a roll of parchment cataloguing the wand movement, pronunciation, and effects of the bogey-blowing jinx. Whilst perhaps appropriate work for first years, Harry found it entirely mind-numbing work, especially since he had up until a few months ago been working with Protego, Incendio Maxima, and Diffindo, not to mention a host of other spells that could easily be used to kill or at least debilitate the opposition. Of course, he’d been forced to study those spells in secret, and thus wasn’t as proficient at them as he’d like to be, but the point remained. The spells stood in stark contrast to the Bogey-Blowing jinx, which caused the opponent’s nose to run profusely, a jinx Harry found hard to believe he’d ever end up using on the battlefield. Although, to be fair to Quirrell, the only useful spell in a battle a first year could possibly cast with their magic would be a nice Nasas Protero, a spell Harry himself had used several times. The nose crunching spell was always satisfying to land, and he still treasured the time he had hit Lockhart with it “accidentally” after the git had almost vanished the bones in his arm after his second Quidditch match.

“Do you need help with that?” A nervous, female voice came from behind, startling him.  
After jumping in his chair a little, he looked behind him to see Hermione looking at him, waiting expectantly.

“No thanks,” He replied, “I think I’m about done. Thanks for the offer, though.” He finished politely, giving her a half-smile.  
He didn’t want to be beholden to anybody, a lesson he had learnt the hard way after an especially gruelling study session with Daphne had transformed into questions about betrothal come Harry’s ascendance to “Lord Potter” at age 18. Besides, he knew more than her anyway, and wasn’t about to spend three hours working on something as entirely inconsequential as an essay on the Bogey-Blowing jinx. Hermione just nodded and turned around, fleeing from the increasing levels of chaos in the common room. In her rush, she almost ran headlong into Ron, who had to jump out of the way to avoid being bowled over.

“Oi! Watch it!” He cried indignantly at her retreating back, before turning and walking towards Harry, a confused look on his face. “What’s with the bookworm?” He asked, his eyebrows furrowed.  
“Dunno, she wanted to help me finish my essay or something? Like I couldn’t finish it myself…” he finished darkly, a little annoyed at the fact the girl seemed to consider herself above her classmates. A week in, and it was becoming easier to remember why it had been so easy to pick on her. He forced down the stirrings of guilt, looking at Ron again. “Anyways, Friday afternoon, what are we doing?”  
Ron shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. I was thinking of grabbing Scabbers and taking him somewhere, he’s been off ever since we came here. Maybe its your owl or something.” He said, with a surprisingly thoughtful look on his face. Then, realising what he had just implied, blurted out “not that I’ve a problem with that, Hedwig’s been brilliant, it’s just, y’know, owls and rats….” He trailed of limply, hoping he hadn’t insulted his friend.  
Harry smiled a little. The Weasley’s, having a rat for a pet. How in keeping with their general image. “Really, Ron? You were planning to spend Friday with your rat? C’mon. Surely we can think of something better to do than that?”  
Ron considered. “You ever played wizard’s chess?” He said finally.  
Harry looked at Ron sceptically. Wizard’s chess was pretty fun, and was his favourite framing device for elaborate plans, but against an eleven year old? Especially an 11 year old Ron Weasley? He was doubtful the boy could put up any serious challenge.  
“Yeah, it’s alright, I guess, but its Friday afternoon! I don’t want to stretch my brain any more after all this.” He complained, knowing that he’d very much like to have his brain stretched, perhaps literally if it helped escape from the boredom of some of his classes. The only thing worse than having to sit through Binns lecture about the Goblin Wars was having to sit though the lecture a second time.  
Ron looked at him pleadingly. “Pleease, just one game? I’ll even go easy on you, I’ll take a knight off before we start!”  
“Fine… but the knight thing won’t be necessary.” Harry grabbed his parchment and strolled over to one of the side tables, where a set of battered chess pieces lay. “I’ll be black.” Harry said, motioning for Ron to sit. This wouldn’t take long.

Well, at least he got one thing right. Ten minutes later, his King was trapped in the corner by Ron’s Queen and Rook. Determined to concede graciously, he knocked his king over, and held out his hand. “That was bloody brilliant.” He said genuinely, an abashed grin on his face. To say he was impressed was an understatement. He would have been less surprised if Merlin had risen from the grounds outside Hogwarts and began throwing irate Puffskeins at the Headmaster. Harry didn’t delude himself into thinking he was anything more than a good player, but Ron Weasley was, at the grand age of eleven years old, already a prodigy at the game. Whilst the boy was not yet a master, Harry had never stood a chance as Ron’s knights had skewered and forked their way into his ranks, cutting his troops apart. It had been embarrassing at first, losing to a Weasley, but as the boy’s skill only continued to show, Harry had found himself becoming more and more convinced that his defeat was by no means a fluke.  
Ron, meanwhile, had a satisfied smile on his face as he absentmindedly stroked the head of his King, who looked somewhere between chuffed and irritated at the gesture. “Thanks, Harry, you were pretty good. Read a book on it and I’m sure you’ll be better than me in no time!” He said generously, every part of him believing that was true.  
“Pretty good? Well, I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration considering my army lies mangled on the field within ten bloody minutes, but sure, a book will certainly help me defeat the prodigy.” Harry replied easily.  
“Ooh, what’s this?” The voice of Lavender Brown warbled behind Harry, full of excitement. “Is this chess? Oh, I love the game! Who was which? I bet you were black, weren’t you Ron?” She exclaimed, looking the two boys.  
Ron looked at her for a moment as anger flashed across his features. “What? No, I-“  
“Ron, here, was white. Which clearly was a sign, since he creamed me in less than ten minutes.” Harry interjected, not wanting to deal with the headaches a fight would cause. Not when he had something better to do.  
Lavender, to her credit, looked at Ron more closely, renewed interest in her eyes as he stared back at her grumpily. “Well…I guess I should give you more credit, Ron.” She concluded, before turning to walk back to Parvarti. Harry’s hand shot out to touch her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. She looked back at him curiously. “Any particular reason your hand is on my shoulder, Harry?”  
Harry smiled. “Yes…it would be fair to say you’ve something of an interest in hair, right?”  
Lavender cocked her head a little. “Well…yeah” she said uncertainly. “But I don’t see what that’s got to with anything...”  
If it was possible, Harry’s smile stretched even further. “Oh, on the contrary, Lav, it may be precisely what I’ve been looking for.” He looked at the Weasley twins for a moment, considering them. “If you’re interested, I’ve got a mission for you…”

Saturday morning dawned on Hogwarts castle. Bookworms were already working in the library, hangovers were being nursed, some were sleeping in whilst a few were sleeping out in broom closets. The Gryffindor common room was a bastion of peace and tranquillity, as the fire crackled merrily and students chatted demurely, careful not to wake their sleeping colleagues. It was a tranquillity that lasted up until the moment the Weasley twins strutted into the common room.  
“We have an announcement!” One said, as everybody stared at them in disbelief.  
“A message, meant specifically for a person, or a group of people.” The other continued, ignoring the incredulous looks they were garnering.  
“And that message is..”  
“Well played!” They chorused in unison.  
The entire common room descended into laughter as Fred and George, their heads entirely bald save for a mohawk of colour that alternated between green and white, favoured their fans with an abashed smile.  
Harry, in bed, heard the laughter emanating from the common room, and he contentedly rolled over, grinning ear to ear. The charm they’d had put on the twins could last a little longer, he thought, as he closed his eyes.

  
Harry wandered along the old corridor in the East Wing, scrutinising the blank wall in front of him. It was odd, he reflected, at there were no portraits along this entire stretch. Was it a sign? A hint that not all was as it seemed? He tapped his wand against the wall every few steps, hoping that he’d find something. But, the wall seemed determined to remain a wall, and there was certainly no hollow noises coming from it. A minute later, and he admitted defeat. Another fruitless search. Whilst he had come across a few old classrooms, and a weird passage contained within a statue of Wendelin the Weird, he was still no closer to finding the Chamber. Grumpily, he trudged back towards the tower, ignoring the excited chattering of students enjoying what remained of the first weekend off. Still, at least he had checked off one more area off the ever-shortening list of “unusual” Hogwarts areas. Of course, the list of “unusual” areas at Hogwarts was truly massive, and whilst he had managed to use logic to narrow it down somewhat, there were still more places than he wanted to think about able to hold the Chamber. And that, of course ,was assuming that he’d be able to tell if there was a secret passage to the chamber by tapping his wand and sending some magic at the wall! It all seemed so hopeless. He gritted his teeth. If the alternative was students dying on his watch, he’d break his damned wand before he saw the basilisk get loose again.  
Nodding determinedly, he began the long walk back to the dormitories, thinking of the books he had yet to go over in his search. The list was rapidly dwindling, and the possibilities seemed to be increasing all the time. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he completely missed a turban-clad figure sidle out from a corridor, and begin to follow him.

When he got back to the dormitory, it was clear something had happened. A number of students were crammed around the notice board, with many more chattering excitedly.  
“Harry!” Neville called from the crush of people. “Did you hear?”  
Harry shook his head. “Hear what?”  
Nevillle broke free of the crowd and scampered over. “Its flying practice! We’ve got it with the Slytherins this Thursday.” He moaned.  
Harry did his best to look surprised. “Really? Mixing the two arch-rivals, I wonder how that could go badly.”  
“I don’t even know how to fly! Gran never let me! She said I had enough accidents on the ground to let me go flying.” Morosely, he looked down accusingly at his legs, which did seem to get into more than their fair share of accidents.  
“Well most people won’t, except the rich kids like Malfoy. You’ll be in good company, at least.” Harry explained, hoping to avoid a repeat of the infamous Remembrall incident. Drake and Ron had spent the next week in detention for that little stunt.  
“But Ron says he’s outrun a muggle hang-glider, and he’s not rich at all!”  
“Ron’s just telling tales, is all. Don’t worry about it. Just stick close to me, and we’ll be fine, yeah?” Whilst Harry did not particularly want to spend his first flying lesson in forever babysitting Neville of all people, it was better than the alternative. In his first flying lesson, the boy had fallen from his broom halfway through the lesson, losing his Remembrall in the process. Draco and Ron had began squabbling over it, culminating in them having a broom race. They had, of course, been assigned detention in the Forbidden Forest as a punishment, where they had been unfortunate enough to meet what Harry now realised was the Dark Lord. With how much things had already changed, the last thing Harry wanted was for two first years to be in the forest with Quirrell’s possessed body out and about.  
Neville, meanwhile, just nodded a little, his face a little white at the mere thought of flying. “I will, thanks, Harry. I just hope I don’t embarrass you in front of Malfoy.”  
Oh. Right. Malfoy. If he knew his former friend, he’d be ribbing Neville every chance he got.  
“Don’t worry, Nev, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Worst comes to worst, I’ll handle him, okay?”  
“yeahokaythen.”  
“What was that?”  
“Yeah. Okay then. Thanksalot. You really don’t have to stick up for me though, Harry, I-“  
“Neville. It’s fine. Lets…just not talk about it anymore.”  
There was an awkward silence for a moment, before Harry came up with an excuse to leave.  
“Anyways, I got some study do before dinner tonight, I’ll be down in the dormitory.”  
“Bye Harry.”  
Harry hurried across the common room, keen on retreating into his books. In his haste, he missed the two Weasley twins, staring suspiciously at him from across the room.


	11. Chapter 11

The sun shone overhead, warming the grass of the pitch and vaporising the beads of dew that clung to the grass. Harry bent down and ran his hands through the grass, feeling the green stalks bend beneath him. He straightened, ignoring the sideglances Ron and Neville were giving him as they strode onto the quidditch pitch. Already there were the Slytherins, most of whom were watching their colleagues with that patented sneer.   
“Did we really look that comically evil?” He asked himself quietly. “No wonder they all hated us.”   
“-And then the muggle helicopter started to fall to the ground!” Malfoy said loudly, as his henchmen laughed gaily.  
Harry rolled his eyes, even as he felt a pang of desire. He’d been the one believing that made up nonsense last time.   
As the students gathered on the ground, standing next to whichever old broom seemed least likely to disintegrate upon flying into their hands. Harry picked an older model he could have sworn was a Silver Arrow, which would have made it almost 70 years old.  
“You’re meant to plant both feet on the ground before you take off to get maximum acceleration, you see.” Hermione explained to Parvarti with another of her boring, hackneyed quidditch tips that she’d been spouting all week long. Meanwhile, Madam Hooch strode onto the field, her confident, no-nonsense demeanour already making itself known.   
“Well? What are you all waiting for?” She barked, making some students flinch. “Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say ‘Up’!”  
“Up!” Everyone cried, with varying levels of enthusiasm. Harry’s broom, naturally, came directly up into his hand perfectly. At least that hadn’t changed. Looking up, her surveyed the rest of the class’s attempts. Hermione’s broom had rolled around, Neville’s broom had flicked up and hit him in the ribs, and Dean Thomas’s hadn’t moved at all. After a minute or so of trying under Hooch’s stern gaze, finally everybody had a broom in their hand.   
Hooch demonstrated how to mount the broom with slipping off the end, a demonstration Harry didn’t bother to listen to. He was too busy remembering playing in his first quidditch match in second year. Absentmindedly, he turned to look at Faye Dunbar, his counterpart as seeker in that first game. He scowled, remembering how close she had come to catching the snitch before Bole had sent a bludger her way.  
“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground hard.” Said Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. “On my whistle – three – two –“  
But Neville, in a classic Neville move had kicked off too early (how had he managed to make a mistake earlier than in the original timeline?), and began rising severely.   
“Come back here boy!” Hooch shouted angrily, grabbing her broom from the ground to give chase.  
But Neville, of course, couldn’t. He kept rising – 10 feet – like a cork out of a bottle, his white face silhouetted against the blue sky. He flailed a little - 20 feet – as if trying to decide whether to stay on now and risk falling later, or take the fall now. He semed to come to a decision - 25 feet -, and in a heart stopping moment, threw himself off his broom.   
“Arresto Momentum!” Harry cried as Neville plummeted to the ground, the entire class gasping and crying out.   
His aim was good. The spell hit the boy a few feet above the ground. His power, however, was not so good. The boy slammed into the ground with an audible CRACK, as Hooch, her wand finally in hand, ran over to the impact site. A bloodcurdling cry of pain echoed around the pitch as Neville screamed, rolling over to reveal an arm bent at an angle more suited to a quadruped than a human.   
His broom, meanwhile, seemed to have come to a decision of its own. Pushed gently by the wind, it began floating to the Forbidden Forest, unnoticed by the class who had, as people tend to do, crowded around the incident.   
Hooch knelt by the victim, who was blubbering and staring at his arm in shock. “Broken bloody arm. It’s alright, kid, you’ll be fine. Pomfrey will have you fixed up in no time, trust me.” She muttered, helping the boy up by his robe. She put her arm around him in a tender motion Harry could only assume was motherlike, before turning to the rest of the class. “Not a single one of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms there where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’.”   
With that, she guided Neville gently towards the hospital wing, hoping the class wouldn’t see the winces she gave when Neville whimpered softly. She had a reputation to keep, after all.   
No sooner were the pair out of earshot than Draco had begun to joke about, as the class tried to shake off the collective shock a student’s near-death experience had given them all.  
“Did you see his face? The great lump.” He laughed with Crabbe and Goyle, ignoring the rest of the class’s angry glares. The two laughed dutifully as murmurs of other conversations began to take hold, shaking the collective torpor from the group.   
“Hang on!” Cried Malfoy suddenly, dashing forward to pick up a shining class sphere from the ground. “The great berk dropped his Remembrall!” he cried, holding it up as it glittered in the sun. “I should leave this somewhere he can find it…maybe in the top of a tree.”   
Ron stepped forward, angrily. “Give it here, Malfoy.” He said dangerously, his fists curled up and his face glowering at his sort-of-friend’s near escape.   
“Why, Weasley? So you can sell it off? This old thing won’t buy you a pair of new robes, you know” Malfoy sneered, his eyes looking meaningfully at the boy’s patched, worn robes.   
Ron’s face exploded into a rictus of fury, and he stormed towards Malfoy, his fists raised and ready to do battle. Harry just stared, rooted to the spot by the sight of his current and former friend ready to trade blows.   
“Hah, try to catch me, Weasel!” Draco cried from behind his bodyguards as he mounted his broom.   
“Come back here, you coward!” Ron screamed, as the rich heir kicked off the ground and into the sky. “C’mon Harry, let’s get him!”  
“No!” Hermione screamed. “Madame Hooch told us not to move – you’ll get us all in trouble!”   
“Yes Potter, listen to your mudblood, and stay down like a good golden boy.” Malfoy taunted with glee, looking down from his broom at the frozen Harry.  
That did it. There were very, very few things Draco Malfoy could possibly have said that would have roused Harry from his torpor. The last thing he wanted to do was to go against the teacher and fight against his former best friend in midair. But he sure as hell wouldn’t stand by and let that go by unanswered, for a million different reasons.   
Silently, Harry flicked his broom up with his foot, catching it easily. In one smooth, practiced motion he slid the broom between his legs and kicked off, already matching Malfoy’s speed. As he hurtled towards the boy, a small, sadistic part of him enjoyed the fear in those silver eyes of his. Malfoy, rightfully terrified, dropped the Remembrall in fright as he desperately tried to move out of the way of the incoming bullet that a few moments ago had been a wide eyed boy rooted to the spot.   
Harry, his eyes cold and his blood pounding, felt like he was in a trance. It was the thing he liked most about flying. Up here, things were simple. They were clean. He was in his element. Ignoring his fleeing enemy, who was slapping the side of his broom in his efforts to escape, Harry dived back down towards the ground, where the glass sphere slowly fell towards the grass. Would it shatter? Best not to risk it. Besides, whilst a blow to Malfoy’s body would be temporary at best, and could get Harry expelled or suspended, a blow to his pride would echo from him for a while to come. Perhaps it would be enough to force the boy to talk to him. Harry could hope.   
Everything moving in what felt like slow motion, he continued his dive, his hands already searching for the ball as he sped towards the ground. If his arms were back to their fifth year size, he’d be confident of catching the magical object. As it was…he calculated it would be close. In the corner of his eye, he could see the faces of his classmates. Some were terrified. Some were elated. Some were merely shocked. His mind didn’t bother to register them, however. It was close now. His knees were almost touching the ground, his arm extended as far as it would go. He was straining the broom and his body forward, his hands feeling the tickle of grass against his knuckles. Almost – YES! The Remembrall fell right into his hand as he pulled out of his dive, grinning triumphantly as he raised his fist in triumph. He touched down, enjoying the open mouths of his classmates, who stared at him uncomprehendingly. He smiled at them, as Malfoy touched down far to his right, his eyes confused and frightened. Harry sneered at him, looking meaningfully to the glass in his hand.   
“HARRY POTTER!” An old, severe voice cried out from behind him.   
Oh no.  
Professor McGonagall almost ran towards him, her face in a state of almost complete shock. “Never ¬– in all my time at Hogwarts. – how dare you – might have broken your neck.” Her Scottish accent, Harry detachedly noticed, became stronger whenever she was distressed or angry. At the moment, she could pass for William Wallace.   
“It wasn’t his fault, professor –“  
“Be quiet, Miss Patil.”  
“But Malfoy-“  
“Will be punished accordingly. That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter. Follow me, now.”   
Harry trod towards her dejectedly, cursing internally. Whilst expulsion wasn’t an option for him, McGonagall could still make his life hellishly difficult, something Harry was keen to avoid. McGonagall lead him inside, angrily wrenching open doors and marching down the lon g corridors of Hogwarts. Harry, knowing that any protests would have no effect on the severe professor, kept quiet. Whilst he wasn’t about to offer any protests, however, he certainly had plenty of questions. They weren’t going to her office, nor the Headmaster’s. In fact, he was fairly certain they were, for some inexplicable reason, going to the corridor where most charms classes were held. Harry was only able to hold back his natural curiosity for a few moments more when McGonagall opened a door and poked her head inside.   
“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?” She requested, without a hint of the fury Harry had ascribed to her.   
Wood? But why was the Gryffindor cap-oh.   
Oh yes.   
The burly fifth year walked out into the hallway, a confused look on his face.   
McGonagall directed them into the classroom next to the one Flitwick was in. After closing the door behind them, she smiled brightly at the young Quidditch captain.  
“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood – I’ve found you a Seeker.”  
Wood’s confused expression morphed into a look of pure joy.   
“Are you serious, Professor?”   
“Absolutely.” McGonagall said crisply, smiling encouragingly at Harry. “The boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?”   
Harry nodded, seeing no reason to clarify with a comment.   
“He caught a glass Remembrall after a forty foot dive a moment before it would have hit the ground. Didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it.”  
Wood looked like he was in a state of Rapture. The world famous Harry Potter, not only on the Quidditch team, but in his first year?   
“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” He asked gently, as if worried that this miraculous new seeker was just a mirage to be blown away if he breathed too hard.   
“Wood’s captain of the Quidditch team.” McGonagall explained.   
“I’ve read a lot about it, and I know most of the rules. Catch the snitch, game ends, get 150 points, and no using a sword to decapitate the opposition.” Harry said calmly, hoping that they would assume that the child in front of them had read some books on the subject, instead of wondering whether he was a time traveller or not.  
“Brilliant!” Wood beamed, looking down with pride at his newest team-mate. “He’s just the right build for Seeker, too. Light – speedy – we’ll have to get him a decent broom, Professor – a Cleansweep Seven, or even the new Nimbus, if he can afford one.”   
McGonagall cleared her throat, hoping to cut Wood off from the speech he was clearly ready to spew. “I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend the first year rule. It’s really to protect the first years from hurting themselves at tryouts, but with Mr. Potter here I doubt we’ll be in too much trouble. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin. I couldn’t look Severus in the face for weeks…”   
McGonagall peered over her glasses at Harry. “I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you.” She smiled to show it was a joke, before continuing. “Your father would have been proud. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.”


	12. Chapter 12

The Great Hall that night was full of gossiping students, each glancing at the Boy-Who-Lived in between discussing the latest rumour. Was he really the new Seeker? The youngest in a century? Some claimed he had saved a girl falling off the Owlery with a hundred metre dive, whilst others claimed it was all a lie to cover up the fact Gryffindor had nobody competent to play Seeker this year. Harry just ignored the rumours, only confirming his new status to those who asked. These people, invariably, had then sprinted away to tell their friends, excited to know the truth of the rumour mill. Finally, Gryffindor’s famed Chaser trio had come over to learn the truth of the matter. Now, Harry was telling the story to the spellbound girls.  
“Then, everybody goes silent. Suddenly, McGonagall is behind me, spluttering with what I figured was total fury, right? So, she he takes me to Wood, and suddenly she’s telling me that I’m going to be Gryffindor’s next Seeker!” He finished with aplomb, ignoring the glare Hermione was sending hm from further down the table.  
“Wicked.” Ron breathed, in total awe of his friend (despite this being he third time he’d heard the tale) as the three Chasers gave a little squeal of excitement.   
“This is brilliant! Nobody’ll be able to stop us this year!” Johnson crowed, her fist pumping a little as she looked at Spinnet triumphantly. “Told you the twins were telling the truth!”   
Spinnet smiled tolerantly before replying. “Hey, don’t look at me like that, its not my fault! How was I supposed to know the one time they tell the truth is when Harry ruddy Potter becomes the youngest Seeker in a century?” She grumbled, flipping the bird to the Weasley twins, who were grinning happily at their teammate.   
Bell, meanwhile, looked over the moon with the turn of events. “I can’t believe it. If you had told me this time last year I’d be Chaser, and I’d be playing with Harry Potter, I’d get Pomfrey to bring you back to St. Mungo’s where you bloody well belong.”  
Harry grinned, genuinely a little touched by the trio’s enthusiasm. When he had made Seeker in his second year, the announcement had been treated with varying degrees of scepticism, jealousy, and accusations that the whole thing was political. They were right, of course, everything in Slytherin had been political, but it still hurt a little.  
“Meeting our newest member, ladies?” The voice of a terribly smug Oliver Wood said from behind Harry.   
“We would’ve done it earlier if you’d told us, Wood.” Johnson said accusingly, albeit with a mischievous glint in her eye that suggested she wasn’t serious.  
Wood blanched a little as he chivvied Ron out of the way a little, sitting next to Harry and opposite the girls. “McGonagall told me not to tell anyone! It was meant to be a surprise, but, well..” He had the decency to look a little abashed. “I had to tell somebody, didn’t I? And they told somebody, who overheard it, and now..” he gestured helplessly to the unusually ebullient hall.   
“Well, at least Dumbledore’ll have to lift the first year rule now that everybody’s heard about it, right?” Bell opined optimistically, before looking at Wood nervously. “He will have to, right? He can’t just let Harry sit on the sidelines, can he Ollie?”  
Wood made a calming motion with his hands. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Katie. Professor McGonagall has a knack for getting what she wants.”  
Harry nodded sagely. “I’m just glad I’m not getting expelled. Or worse, detention with Filch.”   
The little group Harry had around him laughed uproariously (apparently they found his joke far funnier than he did), drawing the ire of Hermione. If looks could kill, she’d be as dangerous as the Dark Lord.   
“Or with Quirrell.” Bell complained. “I don’t think you’d be able to get the smell out for weeks.” She wrinkled her nose, to the further amusement of her compatriots.   
With that change of topic, Harry saw an opportunity. He wanted to unmask Quirrell, and relatively quickly. But he certainly didn’t want his reasoning to be “I came back from the future.” He’d end up in St. Mungo’s or in Azkaban, and that was assuming that old fool Dumbledore didn’t rip his secrets out with Legilimency and change the timeline to his liking. He may have been the most powerful wizard of his age, but a skilled political player, he was not. Hence, he needed a reason to suspect Quirrell, and the more people he got asking questions about the man, the easier it would be to make his deduction seem…organic. With that in mind, he began to speak.   
“Speaking of Quirrell….does something seem.. I dunno, off about him to any of you? He’s always got that weird turban on, and the whole garlic thing…I mean, does he really think a vampire could break into Hogwarts?”   
Everybody looked thoughtful for a moment, before Bell piped up. “Yeah, that is weird, actually. I mean, was he always this weird in Muggle Studies, Ollie?”  
Wood considered for a moment. “I mean, he was always a total coward. The garlic thing is new, but, I mean, it’s the sort of thing he would do.”  
Seeing the group’s declining interest in the subject, Harry spoke up again. “Yeah, I guess…its just that whenever I go near him my scar starts hurting and itching…it could be nothing, I guess, but..”  
The group looked at him silently for a moment.  
“Woah. Maybe your scar can detect evil.” Ron suggested, his eyes wide with the possibilities.  
Wood snorted with derision. “Oh, please. Quirrell can’t be evil, have you seen the man? He stutters worse than the school brooms. I’m surprised he can cast a spell he stutters so much.”  
Bell’s look of concern showed her disagreement with her captain. “I don’t know, Ollie. I mean, if Harry’s scar is acting weird around Quirrell, it might be worth talking to McGonagall about it. Have you talked to her, Harry?”   
He shook his head. “I don’t want to bother if I’m just imagining things. Besides, I only ever see him in the DADA classroom, so it might just be something there instead.”  
Most of the group nodded, but Bell didn’t look convinced. “Maybe…but if it keeps happening, promise me you’ll go to McGonagall, okay?” Her anxious blue eyes locked onto his, until he looked away. He flushed a little with embarrassment. It was rare somebody cared so much, even if was presumably because she wanted to play Quidditch with him.   
“Alright. If it keeps happening, I’ll go to McGonagall.” He mumbled, trying to stop his embarrassment from showing any further.   
“Promise?”  
“Promise.”   
With that, the team moved onto lighter topics, like their opposition team makeup, and strategies they could use. Ron looked like he was in heaven, and he even had a few decent strategies to offer that stopped him from being a total nuisance. For his part, Harry was content to let them talk, offering a comment here or there. It wouldn’t do to seem too knowledgeable about the sport, after all.

A few days later, after a few well placed enquiries, an pair of owls came into the Great Hall in the morning with a package that could only be one thing. It landed, of course, in front of one Harry James Potter. A note followed a moment after, landing on top of the long, thin rectangular parcel. Harry, after giving the owls a well deserved cut of bacon, opened the note which read:  
DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.  
It contains your new Cleansweep Seven, but I don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch pitch at seven o’clock for your first training session.  
Professor McGonagall.

Ignoring the curious looks the package was getting him, Harry silently showed the note to Ron and Neville.   
Ron spoke up first, passing the note across the table to Lavender and Parvarti. “Blimey. A new Cleansweep? That’s brilliant! I thought for sure she was going to get you the new Nimbus though.” He added with disappointment.   
She had, in fact, been planning to until Harry asked her not to. Whilst the Nimbus was undoubtedly a marvel of modern magical engineering, Harry had always preferred the Cleansweep brand. Whilst not as flashy, nor as capable of reaching such high speeds, they made up for it with slightly better handling. Plus, they were slightly better over a short sprint, with higher acceleration than the Nimbus. Besides, his father had owned a Cleansweep.   
Neville, meanwhile, was absentmindedly rubbing at his arm as he stared at the parcel, undoubtedly thinking about what was inside it.   
They went back to finishing their meals, but after a few minutes, Harry decided that the amount of goggling and whispers in the hall was quickly approaching critical mass. “Alright, I’m going back to the dorms to open it. Anybody coming with?”   
Lavender and Parvarti shook their heads, clearly intending to share the news to Dunbar and her friend. Neville just blanched at the thought and went back to picking at his toast.   
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world mate.” Ron answered, his tone of voice suggesting that was very literally the case.   
They stood up quickly and hurried through the doors, eager to get upstairs and crack open the parcel. However, their excitement was quickly dispelled as, standing in the entrance hall, were two large lumps of muscle, and their master was not far behind. The two boys tried not to arouse their attention, and surreptitiously edged to the other side of the hall from Draco and his goons.  
Harry knew if there was one thing other than fits of pique his once-friend was adept at, it was fits of raging jealousy for something he couldn’t have. Unfortunately, their attempts to avoid the trio’s attention were unfruitful. Malfoy nudged Crabbe and Goyle, who stalked over, staring dumbly at the two Gryffindors.   
Harry was expecting a cutting remark, or at least a query as to the parcel. What he did not expect was for the Slytherin to not even say hello, and instead try to grab the parcel far Harry’s hands.  
Harry jerked the parcel back furiously. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Going around grabbing people’s parcels, honestly?”   
Malfoy coloured red, although Harry couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment at being called out or anger at not getting what he wanted.  
“That’s a broomstick, isn’t it Potter?” He snarled, jealously and spite warring on his features. “First years aren’t allowed them! You’ll be in for it this time.”   
“Whats the problem, Malfoy?” Ron spat, putting his body between the two. “jealous Harry’s got something your father can’t buy your way into?”   
“You’re one to talk, Weasley. I can’t imagine your family’s ever been able to buy their way into anything.” Malfoy sneered back.  
“What’s all this, children?” A tiny face spoked up from behind Malfoy’s elbow. “Not arguing, are we?” He asked meaningfully.   
“Potter’s got a broom Professor! And I bet he was sneaking away to his dorm to open it!” Malfoy crowed, his eyes glaring triumphantly at the two boys.  
“Yes, yes that’s right.” Flitwick said, beaming at Harry. “A new Cleansweep, wasn’t it? And don’t worry, Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances. You know, Mr. Potter, your father used to ride a Cleansweep as well? A Model Five, I believe. I’m sure you’ll live up to his legacy.” The little man(?) said kindly.   
“I hope so sir. Thanks to Malfoy here, I have that chance.” He said smarmily, eliciting a bark of laughter from Ron.  
Flitwick, clearly a little confused by that comment, and the rapidly reddening face of the Slytherin, decided the safest course was to dismiss them both. “Very good, very good. Well, best run along now, boys. I look forward to seeing you in class!”   
With that, Harry and Ron ran up the stairs, their good humour restored and their eagerness to get back to the dormitories redoubled.   
“’Thanks to Malfoy here, I have that chance.’” Ron guffawed as they reached the top. “Brilliant stuff, Harry.”   
Harry was caught up in a moment of surreality for a moment. Here he was, with Ron Weasley, laughing about making fun of Draco Malfoy. And it wasn’t for a prank or a plan, either. It was just because…well, he was actually enjoying the redhead’s company. As if to put an exclamation point on his little moment, Hermione Granger, her face thunderous, looked disapprovingly at them and the parcel.   
“I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking the rules?” She demanded sharply.  
Ron reacted first “Well somebody had to do it, and you didn’t look like you were stepping up.”   
Harry reacted a moment later. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” He quoted without looking at her. Let her chew on a taste of her own bookish medicine.   
Hermione was taken aback for a moment, but quickly revered. Nothing would stop her when she had her mind set on something. “And I suppose you think breaking the rules is a good thing? You good have been hurt! You could have been killed! You could have lost us House Points or gotten a detention! Honestly!”   
“But instead he taught Malfoy a lesson, and saved Neville’s Remembrall! Besides, if he had done something wrong, McGonagall would’ve punished him! Now how about you get over the fact you’re not the teacher’s favourite and leave us alone! Maybe if you cared about your housemates more than the rules you’d have some friends!” Ron retorted, anger creeping into his voice every word he said.   
Hermione’s eyes widened a little. Then, she turned her nose up, and without a word, stalked past them down to the Great Hall. They didn’t notice the tears in her eyes.   
“Honestly,” Ron said loudly, hoping she was still in earshot. “she needs to get her priorities in order. House points? Any real Gryffindor would stand by their friends no matter how many points they lost.”  
Harry avoided looking at the fleeing girl, looking at his friend instead. “That’s pretty harsh. Not untrue. But harsh.”  
Ron cocked his head in a rare moment of thoughtfulness. Then he shook his head. “Well its not my fault she’s insufferable. Maybe if she actually cared about people they’d care about her back.” He said insightfully, before ruining his illusion of wisdom. “Now, lets get upstairs. I want to see that broom!”


	13. Chapter 13

The weeks went slowly by, as Harry slowly fell into the rhythm of his second time at Hogwarts. The leaves began to turn from green to red, marking the deepening of autumn as he threw himself into his work. By the weeks leading up to Halloween, he had finished his pile of books about Hogwarts, and spent much of his free time roaming the halls, searching for the Chamber. However, his free time was limited, constrained as he was by the demands of Quidditch, study, and magic practice as he tried to recover the power he’d once had. So, as the leaves piled up around the grounds in great drifts, he had found himself spending time with Ron and Neville, occasionally joined by Lavender and Pavarti.   
His grades, naturally, remained high, with O’s and EE’s in most classes save potions, where all his effort went into keeping Neville from killing them both. As a result, he was on a healthy A standard, with an EE every so often.   
He and Hermione still had not spoken since the stairway incident, an arrangement that suited him well enough, although he did feel a little guilty from time to time about the situation. Still, maybe if she had found it in herself to be a little less uptight, she would have some friends. Instead, she walked to and from classes alone. In Harry’s eyes, she had made her bed, and she had to lie in it.   
Far more vexing was the issue of Malfoy, who had proven resistant to any forms of communication that did not involve an insult or a snide sneer, an attitude that seemed to be adopted by the rest of his cohort. Tracey and Daphne had been the most polite in their refusal, but it seemed none of them wanted to associate with any Gryffindors, let alone a Potter.   
Despite it all, Harry found to his surprise that he was genuinely enjoying his time in the Lion’s Den. It was an odd experience, not having to watch his words of his actions, nor having to relentlessly gauge whoever he was speaking to. If it weren’t for the sense of impending doom that hung over his head most hours of the day he could have been described as ‘happy’. But alas, happy was not a word that often applied to Harry James Potter, so as the branches became ever barer, he feverishly threw himself into planning his coup against Quirrell and his parasite, preparing for what could prove to be the day of reckoning. Halloween. 

The night before Halloween, Harry was studying his notes intently, searching for cracks in his plan. This late at night, everybody else had retired to their rooms leaving Harry alone with naught but the scratching of his quill for company. He’d considered retiring with them, but his frantic mind would not sit still for a moment, nor would the anxious fluttering of his stomach cease. No, sleep would not come to him tonight, so he’d decided to make the most of it. Despite his best efforts, however, he’d not managed to find a single problem with his plan, which suggested either it was foolproof or it was so fundamentally flawed that it worked only in his mind. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, before running through the plan one more time in his head.  
He had to unmask Quirrell, and the best way to do it seemed to be through catching him in the act of bringing the troll in. As long as Harry saw him do it, he could use Dumbledore’s pensieve to prove his allegations, and then Quirrell would be apprehended! All Harry had to do was follow him for the hour before and possibly during the feast (the troll wouldn’t have eluded detection for any longer), then get back to the Great Hall, preferably before the Dark Lord’s puppet did. If he succeeded, he’d be free to search for the Chamber without interference, with the added bonus of being rid of a stuttering moron as a Defence teacher. If he failed…well, he was hoping to avoid fighting a troll with the powers of an eleven year old boy. Of course, had he known just how wrong his plan would go, he would have gladly taken that opportunity.  
The sun dawned on Hogwarts castle, the gentle rays of light shimmering off of the lake as the pungent odour of baked pumpkin wafted through the halls. Harry found himself waking up on the couch in the Common Room, curled up in front of the fire clutching his now crinkled parchment. After wiping the drool that had collected around his mouth, he straightened the parchment with a quick charm he’d learnt after falling asleep on his Charms essay, and looked around. The Common Room was almost completely empty, save for a few Seventh Years who were looking through a N.E.W.T textbook. He cast a quick Tempus charm (6:37), before getting up, his body creaking and cracking in protest at the move. A few impatient stretches later, and he was headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Most days he would have waited for Ron and Neville, or at least somebody from the Quidditch team, but today his anxiety was getting the better of him. After a quick meal of pancakes with ice cream (he’d decided to treat himself), Harry got to work. 

Professor Quirrell’s office, on the second floor, was a somewhat spartan affair, unhindered by the personal trappings that one unpossessed by a powerful wizard would have set up. Knowing the truth behind the bare furnishings, Harry couldn’t help but shudder in pity at Quirrell’s plight, even if he had brought it upon himself. As he finished his wandwork, he glanced nervously to his left and right, praying that nobody would turn the corner into the corridor and see him. A few seconds passed, and he put his wand back into his cloak, nodding in satisfaction at the invisible ward placed on the cusp of the office. The basic intruder ward, whilst complicated, wasn’t terribly hard to make. An older wizard would not even notice the small drain on their magic required to keep it operational. For Harry, it was only an annoyance, like a small itch that wouldn’t quite go away. He knew it would impact his magical ability for the day, but he only needed to keep it operational until Quirrell left his office after 5PM. Then, he could safely dispel it. The intruder charm would alert him when anybody who wasn’t named Harry Potter crossed it by ringing alarm bells in in his head. Of course, this would mean that he would be surprised by the ringing of alarm bells in his head at random intervals around the day, but he considered it a worthy trade. He cast another Tempus charm, ignoring the slightly delayed reaction of magic to his command. It was 8:43. Nodding to himself, he walked to Charms.   
“The apple flew about the room, unnaturally compelled by the power of magic. The muggleborn students gasped at the sight, even Hermione seemingly flummoxed by the spell. Flitwick looked in his element, somehow contriving a face of pure glee despite performing one the of the simplest spells in a wizard’s repertoire. Harry did his best to look enthused, but the anxiety of having bells go off in his head at random intervals made it difficult. They had rung twice already in the hour since he put the ward up, and he was not looking forward to goin the rest of the day in fear that at any moment he could be subject to painfully loud ringing bouncing around the inside of his skull.   
Quickly, the class was split into pairs and set to practicing. Harry had partnered with Neville for the day leaving Ron stuck with Hermione. Judging by the venomous looks he was shooting both of them in between the girl’s mini-lectures, it was an arrangement he was none too pleased with. Harry just stared at the feather on his desk that Neville was prodding gloomily. If he was at his best the spell would have been as simple as breathing. Unfortunately, he was tired, maintaining a ward and trying not to draw undue attention. Ignoring Flitwick’s obnoxiously exuberant instructions (Swish and Flick!) he halfheartedly cast at the obstinate feather, coaching Neville with his technique. Strangely, however, the boy’s technique, whilst far from flawless, was tolerable. A few minutes in, and Harry was somewhat confused as to why the feather wasn’t floating in the air. He mentally shrugged. Children’s power cores were unusual. They relied heavily on confidence that an older person would always have, and were often mercurial. Judging by Neville’s character, overconfidence was certainly not a vice he would have any time soon. Averting his eyes from his housemate’s failures, he was drawn to the admittedly amusing sight of Ron angrily trying to cast. The boy reminded Harry of a helicopter, his long arms flailing untidily. It was a stark contrast to Hermione’s sharp, neat flourishes she was practising in between eyeing her partner beadily. Another failed casting attempt later, and she had clearly had enough.  
“You’re saying it wrong.” She snapped, ignoring the frustrated redhead’s face. “It’s Win-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. Make the ‘gar’ nice and long.” She explained, in a somewhat more tolerable tone.  
“You do it then, if you’re so clever.”   
Hermione daintily rolled up the sleeves of her robe, setting Harry’s eyes rolling. Could she be any more intolerable if she tried?   
With a swish and a flick of her wand, Hermione said the magic words. “Wingardium Leviosa.”  
Just like that, the feather rose gently into the air, hovering above a rapidly reddening Ron Weasley.  
“Oh, well done!” Squeaked Flitwick excitedly, clapping his hands a little. “Everyone look here, Miss Granger’s done it!”   
Hermione beamed as the rest of the class stared daggers at her, before returning to their own work.  
“Five points to Gryffindor!” 

“Bloody hell, did you see her?” Ron demanded angrily after class as the pushed their way through the crowded corridor. “Make the gar nice and long” He mimicked, pulling a face. “She’s intolerable!”   
Harry and Neville exchanged looks. It was rare Ron got into moods like this, but on the occasion he did it was best to just let him vent. Besides, Harry could imagine how mortifying it would be to be shown up by that girl, especially after challenging her to do it in the first place. Add to the fact that Ron’s frustration had kept him from achieving any semblance of success in casting the spell, and it was the perfect storm.  
“It’s no wonder no one can stand her! She’s a nightmare, honestly!”   
A body knocked Harry as it hurried by. He was half a second from telling the knuckedragger to watch where they were going when he saw the person’s face.   
It was Hermione’s and they were full of tears.   
“Smooth move, genius.” Harry remarked drily as the trio watched the bushy-haired girl fade into the crowd. “I bet you feel better about yourself now.”  
Ron shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his feet as Neville stared at him. If the chubby boy was a little less timid, he may have seemed accusing or intimidating. Instead, he just looked apprehensive.   
“Well..it’s not my fault she’s got no friends.” Ron mumbled, more to himself than anybody else.   
Harry just rolled his eyes. Getting embroiled in a pre-teen drama session was not something he cared to go in on, and he cared even less for teaching Ron how to properly talk behind somebody’s back. Still, as the gnawing in his stomach could attest, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he had just been party to something that felt all too similar to the afternoon in second year that had ended one life, and changed his forever.  
That gnawing feeling did not go away as the day went on. His nerves, jumpy as they were with the ringing in his head, were shot even further when Hermione didn’t come to Herbology. If he wasn’t stressed enough already, with having to stalk the Dark Lord and all, now he had to feel guilty as well. “Why?” He said to nobody in particular. “Why couldn’t this have happened literally any other day?”   
“What’s that Harry?” Neville said absentmindedly as he stared at the Dittany leaf they were meant to be studying.   
“Nothing, Neville. Nothing important, at any rate.”   
Neville just nodded, his attention absorbed by the springy green plant.

A few hours later, and Harry was really starting to get worried. The twin issues of Hermione and the Dark Lord were weighing on his mind, making it hard to concentrate. Apparently, Hermione hadn’t been seen all afternoon, and by now it was nearing time for the feast. Harry anxiously glanced at the mechanical clock in the dormitory, which showed the position of the stars, the phase of the moon, and the current position of the sun. As far as he could tell, it was about 5:30. He started tapping his foot anxiously, ignoring the concerned looks Hedwig, Neville and Ron were giving him.   
It was the waiting, the insufferable waiting that was the worst. Harry had been in more than his fair share of danger over the years, and always it was the waiting. The knowledge that confrontation and danger was inevitable, and that no matter what he did now, there was no avoiding it. He could do nothing but stare longingly at the clock, watching its interminable ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. In action, things were simple. Things were clear. Cast a spell. Dodge. Block. Run. Cast. Everything moved slowly, and in those rare moments, there was nothing but him, the opposition, and what lay in between. But now, he had nothing but the occasional inane comment to mark the passing the time. Another minute passed. Ron and Neville were talking to each other, but Harry couldn’t be bothered to listen in. An eternity passed. Another minute. Bugger. This.  
Abruptly, Harry stood up. “I’m taking a walk. I’ll see you at the Feast.” He said by way of explanation as he stormed out of the room, leaving his two confused friends behind. He stalked up the stairs and into the common room, which was irritatingly full of happy, excited students. How obnoxious. He was moments away from leaving through the Fat Lady when Lavender and Parvarti walked in.  
“Harry!” They cried in unison.   
“Harry, did something happen with Hermione?” Lavender asked.  
“Because we were just in the girls bathroom, and we heard her crying.” Parvarti elaborated.  
“And this was the second time today.” Lavender finished limply, her expression somewhat sad.   
“Ron was talking about her after Charms..” Harry said tightly, hoping they would get the hint and leave.  
They searched his thunderous expression for a moment, finally registering the metaphorical stormclouds over his head.   
“Well…we’ll go talk to the boys about it, I guess.” Lavender said before slinking off, Parvarti not far behind.   
Harry walked through the portrait, heading straight for the first floor. If he had his alarm bell count correct, Quirrell was in his office, presumably preparing a portkey to teleport the troll in. Harry was unsure of the exact mechanics of the troll’s infiltration, but he assumed that it was teleported to the first floor, at which time Quirrell claimed it was in the dungeons to buy more time for his heist. The teachers had escorted the Slytherins down to the dungeons and tried to find the thing, only to find that it had migrated up to the first floor. A plausible, if unlikely, sequence of events that Quirrell had made up. Really, if it wasn’t for Severus heading his former master off at the corridor then Harry’s time at Hogwarts may have been far shorter. As he descended down the Grand Staircase he considered the possibility of a disillusionment charm on the troll, but it seemed unlikely given the noise and unpredictability fo the creature.   
Unfortunately, his ruminations were ruined when a dozen or so bats Harry had dismissed as another dumb enchantment began flying towards him! He whipped his wand out, and immediately began casting at the winged rodents, which were closing on him with every second.   
“Immobulus!” He shouted as they got within a few feet of him.   
A small blue orb shot out of his wand and detonated on a bat right in the centre of the group. It froze, beginning to float in midair. Harry cursed. Fully powered, that spell would have taken out the whole group! Instead…Harry threw his arms over his head protectively, hoping that these out-of-control bats wouldn’t sting too much. He felt nothing. Peeping out from his makeshift protection, the bats seemed to be flying away. He breathed a sigh of relief, and lowered his guard. Then, his stomach began to turn as the squadron of bats began flying back his way!  
He shot another immobulus at the cloud. It had even less effect than the first, barely slowing the bat it hit. Harry shrieked as he put his arms over his head again as the bats began their second swoop. Again, nothing. Harry glared balefully at the cloud of what he now suspected were entirely illusioned bats.  
He flushed as he noticed the stares that others on the staircase were giving him. Partly piteous, partly amused. He scowled.   
“Well, well, well, brother mine, I think that went very well.” An obnoxiously smug voice said.  
“Indeed, I can’t imagine it going better myself.” Another, identical voice came from behind him.  
Harry whirled around in fury to see the faces of the Weasley twins, who were proudly guiding their bat hit squad. The smiled at him winningly, probably trying to show it was a joke. Harry didn’t care.   
In a cold fury, he mentally dispelled his ward, feeling the magic rush back to him like a water soothing a parched throat.  
“Nasas Protero!” Harry cried, shooting a spell at one of the twins.   
He fell backwards, his nose crunching unpleasantly.   
The other twin looked at him in a mix of shock and anger, going for his wand. He wasn’t fast enough.  
“Petrificus Totalus.” Harry flicked his wand in the appropriate manner.   
The second twin seized up as the spell hit him, his arms snapping to his sides as he fell down next to his brother.  
“Wha’ ‘ell ‘Arry.” The one with the crunched nose cried.  
“Potter. Duelling in the halls, are we?” A silky voice said unpleasantly from behind Harry, making him freeze immediately. “I think we had best go to my office.”


	14. Chapter 14

As he passed the threshold of the heavy wooden door, his steps echoing off the cold stone floor, Harry felt dread descend upon him. Behind him, the Weasley twins were glaring at his back as they silently followed Professor Snape into his office. One of them was also trying his best not to drip blood from his nose onto Snape's floor. The Professor's office was large, with bubbling cauldrons and massive cupboards, presumably filled with ingredients. The most recognisable thing about it, however, was its odour, which was filled with a thousand different scents that combined to thoroughly oversaturate the nose. At least the one with the smashed nose wouldn't have to deal with that.

Snape sat down behind his long wooden desk, which was covered in scraps of parchment, weights, measures, ingredients and other instruments of his craft. He looked at them with a sneer as they nervously stood across from him, the Weasley twins fidgeting somewhat nervously.

"Potter…and the Weasley's." He said slowly, as if mulling the words over in his brain. He smiled viciously, like a predator who caught sight of his prey. "Duelling is explicitly forbidden, Potter, although I'm not surprised our celebrity seems to think the rules do not apply to him. I will take it upon myself to disabuse you of this errant notion."

Harry found himself nervously tapping his foot, desperate for this nightmare to be over as soon as possible. But instead, Snape took his time, savouring the experience of tarnishing the reputation of Gryffindor's celebrity. He did his best not to meet the Professor's eyes as Snape regarded him coolly, doubtless considering the most humiliating punishment.

Snape broke the silence, continuing with iron in his voice. "I will not have students running around making a mockery of the rules of this institution, nor will I have some arrogant child thinking himself above the rules. Despite what you may think, Potter, I don't care who you think you are. You are nothing but a spoilt, arrogant whelp."

Harry just lowered his eyes and took the tirade. As much as the description rankled, in both its wrongness and its unkind assumptions of his character, it would not do to talk back to the man. He just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. As the Weasleys fidgeted anxiously, waiting for their turn to face the music, Harry could almost feel the grains in the hourglass falling. He had no idea how long he had, but he figured he wouldn't have very long if he wanted to catch Quirrell in the act.

Snape, ignorant of his victim's internal monologue, continued. "You are not special, Potter, no matter what that scar on your forehead may lead you to believe. I know your type, Potter. Do not think I'll treat you any different from other students. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

Harry shook his head meekly, looking down at the ground and trying his best to look suitably chastened.

"Nothing? So sure of your celebrity getting you out of it you didn't bother to come up with a cover story, no doubt. Typical of your laziness. It is no wonder Longbottom gets into so much trouble. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and you shall have a week of detention, with me, starting now. You are not to attend the feast until you can eat off every desk in my classroom, understand?" Snape then stood up, a loathsome gleam of triumph in his eyes. "With me, Potter."

Harry's lips tightened in displeasure at the ruling as Snape swept past him and out the door. A detention tomorrow he could handle, but right now? Not a chance. Still, there was nothing to be done for now. Dejectedly, he followed in the professor's wake, knowing there was nothing to be gained by protesting the decision. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of the Weasley's robes, who seemed unsure as to whether they were meant follow. Snape, his hearing acute, solved the dilemma for him.

"You two stay." He said coldly. "Do not for a moment think that you are safe. I suspect it was no coincidence the target of Potter's fit of celebrity pique were you two dunderheaded troublemakers."

The twins stopped their movement, glancing anxiously at each other as they were left to contemplate their fate.

Harry followed the professor to the potions classroom, the dimly lit corridors loathsomely redolent of the Third Task's maze. Snape opened the heavy wooden door, chivvying him inside. Harry dutifully bowed his head and walked through, hoping to fool his one-time mentor into thinking him cowed.

Snape followed him, as Harry waited, noticing the distinct lack of cleaning apparatus.

"Tweak!" Snape said suddenly.

A small, wiry figure clad in a dirty apron appeared with a pop. Taking in its wide eyes and strange features, Harry immediately identified it as one of the Hogwarts House Elves.

"Master Snape calls?" It said tremulously, looking up at the professor.

"I need a sponge and some soap here, the boy will be cleaning the room tonight." Snape said imperiously.

The elf clicked its finger, and a bucket filled with soapy water and a sponge appeared on the table closest to Harry.

"Would yous be requiring anything else, master?"

"No, get back to preparing the feast."

Another pop, and the festy little creature had returned to whence it came. Snape gestured to the bucket with a jabbing finger. "To work, Potter! Its past time you understand how those of lesser status fill their days."

Harry, not particularly set on enlightening the the man as to the irony of that statement, picked up the sponge, feeling the warm water run down his hands. It was an unpleasant reminder of the life he had once lived, locked out from his heritage and his birthright of his place in the magical world. He hesitated for a moment, hoping his supervisor would go back to deal with the Weasleys left in his office. But, to Harry's disappointment, the man seemed set on watching the young Potter's "humiliation". Harry sighed, and got to work, running the sponge up and down the table's length, removing a few encrusted bits of bat's liver as he did so. Snape kept watching, a thin, unpleasant smile etched onto his face. Did the man not have anything better to do? Actually ,considering what Harry knew of the man's social life, he probably did not.

Another precious minute slipped away, and Snape showed no signs of moving. Harry gripped the sponge tighter, forcing down his impulse to tell Snape that there were two dangerous youths still in his office.

Fortunately, he didn't have to. The thought must have occurred to Snape as well for, after another minute of table-cleaning, he sighed. "I shall return shortly, Potter, and I'd best find you here or I'll have you so riddled with detention you'll be serving them after you graduate." With that, he whirled around with a flick of his cloak, and left the room.

Harry waited a few seconds, listening for the retreating footsteps. He wouldn't put it past his wily old head of house to have left as a ruse. In what he hoped was a change to his luck that night, however, it appeared Snape had truly left for good. Harry waited a few seconds more, just in case. Nothing.

Harry cautiously opened the door, wincing as it creaked a little. It still boggled the mind how the wizarding world could be so sophisticated in some aspects, and yet in others was unable to produce the same effect as some WD40. Still, judging by the lack of a furious professor, it appeared the wizarding world's backwardness had not hampered him this time.

Thanks to his years of exploration, he knew the dungeons like the back of his hand. Cautiously, he scurried down the passageway, praying that Snape hadn't forgotten something in the room and had come back to get it. He came near to the end of the corridor where there was a ninety degree turn to the right. The receding footsteps of Professor Snape were going down it, suggesting he was just about to duck into his office to deal with the Weasley twins. On cue, he heard the telltale sound of a latch, followed by the creak of a door. A few moments later, the sounds of the door slamming into its frame echoed down the empty stone passageways. This was his chance. Hurriedly, Harry crouched and ran as fast as he dared down the passageway. He passed Snape's office, where the menacing voice of Severus Snape could be heard. He didn't stop to listen. Instead, he continued his expedition, thanking whatever gods were watching over him for his deliverance (all the while cursing them for making him do it in the first place.) At last, he reached the end of the corridor. With a silent, mocking salute directed at the door to Snape's office, he scurried up the stairs.

He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hang on." He muttered to himself. "I just ran from blooming potions…where the hell is everybody?" He frowned for a moment, as the pieces began to connect in his mind. Unknown amount of time following, being harangued by, and supervised by Snape. No students in the hallways. Snape trying to delay going somewhere else.

Shit.

The Feast had already begun.

Harry dashed up the stairs two at a time, racing against time in his mad sprint. One or two confused faces of latecomers watched him rush past, before continuing on their way to the feast. He ignored them, concentrating on controlling his ragged breathing, which threatened to stop him more thoroughly than any troll could. Dodging past a stray bystander, he flew into the bottom floor of the Grand Staircase. He stopped for a moment as he took in the architecture of the room. As impressive as the changing staircases were, they also made it abominably difficult to get anywhere with any degree of reliability, as they rearranged themselves into configurations that boggled the mind in their inefficiency. Today, however, the castle seemed to be merciful. A staircase at that very moment detached from its mooring and came down with a soft thunk right in front of Harry who, deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, took the proffered transport greatfully as he continued his desperate sprint. After he reached the top of the stairs he rushed headlong down the passageway that lead to the girl's bathroom, where the troll was first sighted. As he thought of the bathroom, he felt an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his head, as if he was forgetting something terribly important. Dismissing it as mere nerves, he slowed down as he reached the corner of the passageway leading to the girl's bathroom. Then he bent down, clutching the stitch in his side, which stung painfully with every breath he took. He sniffed the air. He could swear that he smelt something strange, although he was unsure as to whether it was a mere flight of fancy or if it was the distinctive stench of troll. He straightened, grabbing his wand and taking a deep breath. He was close now, he knew it. Then he turned the corner…

Suddenly, a large object ran right into him, sending him sprawling. He felt his head crack painfully on the stone floor, sending lances of pain shooting through his head and black spots swimming around his eyes. He moaned, looking stupidly around for the source of this pain. Then he found it.

Professor Quirrell looked back at him, his mouth slack and his eyes wide with shock. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish caught out of the sea. Harry just looked at him uncomprehendingly, his brain more concerned with sorting out the aches and bruises that were now on his body.

Quirrell stuttered a few more times, before finally stuttering out a garbled sentence. "T-t-t-troll! Troll in the dungeons!" He cried, before stumbling to his feet and sprinting down to the Great Hall.

Harry's mind swam for a few moments, as he looked at the strange man who was now beating a hasty retreat. He watched the man go out of sight, all the while trying to work out what on earth was going on. Who was he? Why was he here? Who was that? And why was his forehead hurting so damned much? He lay there for a few moments, his battered mind doing its best to sketch out a confused picture of the situation. He was here for a reason, he was certain of that. Then, his mind all came flooding back.

"You great big bloody wanker." He snarled as he forced himself onto his hands and knees. He suppressed the urge to retch as he slowly began to rise, stumbling forward a little as he did so. The corridor swirled around him a little as he did so, the ancient stone built by the long dead greats of yesteryear mocking him with their solidity. As he straightened, he leaned perilously backwards, he centre of gravity moving further and further from the solid bases of his feet. Head still swimming, he forced himself forward, feeling all too much like a weak tree in a cyclone. TO his surprise, the world finally decided to stop spinning, and although his legs felt weak and his thoughts felt like they were moving through molasses, he seemed otherwise unimpeded. Cautiously, he looked around him, getting his bearings. He looked down the corridor, past the girls' bathroom. No troll yet, which was something at least. Behind him, Quirrell had doubtless left him far behind by now, and was probably pulling his act in front of the whole school by now. He vacillated for a moment, swaying this way and that whilst wondering whether he should follow Quirrell, or catch sight of the troll. His mind, still stubbornly refusing to cooperate fully, at least had the decency to remind him that Quirrell would not be suspicious to the Headmaster unless Harry caught the lie and proved the troll was not in the dungeons, but was, in fact, on the first floor and in Quirrell's proximity (thus suggesting he had a hand in the troll's sudden appearance.)

Slowly, Harry began walking down the corridor, concentrating on keeping his legs stable. The odour of troll was definitely becoming more obvious now, and he fancied he could hear the dull thud of its footsteps. He looked to the right as he passed the girl's bathroom, with that itchy feeling in his head back in full force. Why was he so bent on the girl's bathrooms? Had the knock to his head turned him into a creepy pervert? No, there was definitely something else. He shook his head, a decision he immediately regretted as the world spun a little as he did so. It took him a moment to regain his bearings as he shrugged off the strange feeling. Whatever the mystery of the girl's bathroom was, he was sure it could wait while he caught sight of the troll. He steadied himself, then continued walking to the end. At then end of the corridor, he peeked his head out from behind the stone as he heard the ever-closer thud of the beast's footsteps.

And then, there it was. In all its ugly, malodorous, stupid glory. A twelve foot tall thing, thankfully wearing a loincloth, swinging a club happily in its hand. Oblivious, it strolled towards him, its long legs carrying it several times the length of a human stride.

Harry just nodded in satisfaction. As far as he was concerned, his work here was done. Slinking back from the edge of the wall, he turned and began walking as quickly as he dared back down to the Great Hall. He passed the girl's bathrooms, which, if he remembered correctly, had been utterly smashed by the thing the first time the troll had come through. It really was a miracle nobody was in there. He frowned and stopped. Why was that damn itching feeling back again? There was something, he was sure of it. His mind flashed back to earlier that day.

"She's in the girl's bathrooms." Lavender had said.

No. Surely not. What where the odds the girl had gone to this set of bathrooms?

It didn't matter what the odds were. He had to know. As the smell of troll became even stronger, he opened the door, praying the girl had left for the feast, or was at least anywhere else but here.

He opened the door, and was sorely disappointed, for he heard the muffled, but clearly audible sobs of one Hermione Granger.


	15. Chapter 15

The muffled sobs echoed around the bare walls of the bathroom, giving Harry pause as he rued the necessity of ruining this private moment. But, having to choose between ruining her pity-party and letting her stay in the path of a rampaging troll, there was only one obvious choice.

"Hermione?" He called gently into the room, cocking his head to listen for the reply.

"H-h-hello?" She stuttered in between wracking sobs. "wh-wh-who's there?"

"Its me, Harry."

A wail echoed from the leftmost stall, causing Harry to wince. The fact that the mere mention of his name and presence sent the poor girl into such a state did not sit well with him.

"Hermione. I know you're not in the mood to talk to me right now, but we have to go. Now."

"W-w-why?"

"Because there's a bloody troll coming right this way, so unless you want to get smashed into Hippogriff feed, it's past time to get out of here!"

He heard her give another heartrending sob. "You can't fool me." Her hoarse voice came from the stall. "No troll could ever get into Hogwarts. Go, and leave me alone."

Stupid, smart girl. "They can and they have." Harry snapped, not in the mood to deal with her annoyingly astute observations. He switched to a more peaceful tone. "Please, believe me, there is one coming right this way. I don't want you to get hurt. C'mon, let's go."

"You don't care!" She wailed angrily. "You don't care about me at all! You just want to hurt me again! Well guess what, Potter? I shan't be coming out. I'm not about to fall for any of your tricks! Now go, and leave me the hell alone!"

Harry recoiled at the bitterness and spite that was wrapped in every word that spilt out of the little cubicle. His heart roiled in a sea of self-recrimination as his mind flashed back to everything he had said about her. It hurt him to know that there was not a positive epithet amongst them.

"Please. Just leave me alone." A small voice added from the cubicle. A broken, lonely voice that rocked Harry to his very core. He knew that feeling. He knew that feeling all too well. It was a feeling he'd spent years trying to repress as he scrapped and fought in a world he didn't understand, afloat in a sea of privilege, bias, and hatred that he felt no kinship with. In truth, it was a feeling he'd never known Granger would understand. Even in her most vulnerable moments, she'd always seemed so stubborn, so proud, so confident in her knowledge and herself. And yet, here she was.

"Hermione. I-well I." He sighed sadly. "I'm sorry. I truly am. I can't really express how sorry I am. For everything that I've said. For how I've acted. For how-" He choked a little, feeling tears running down his face as he thought about those empty, dead eyes looking up at him. "For everything I've done."

They shared a silence for a moment. A silence that lasted an age. A silence another small, lonely voice that cried out to Harry like his had cried out to her.

"Really?" It asked softly, as if it was in a dream.

"Re-"

Suddenly, the bathroom was filled with the sounds of a door slamming against stone.

"Granger?"

"Hermione?"

Two voices called breathlessly in unison as their steps echoed on the tile.

"Ron, Neville?" Harry said incredulously as the familiar faces came into his view. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Harry?" They looked at him blankly, taking in the tears running down his face. "What the bloody hell are you doing in the girl's bathroom?" Ron shouted, his face red. "Is Hermione in here? Harry, you have to come with us, there's a troll in the dungeons!"

A voice came from the cubicle that was a far cry from the one Harry was with a few moments ago. It sounded controlled, and sharp. "I'm in here, what's going on?"

Ron and Neville jumped at the unexpected source of the voice. "Hermione, there's a troll." Ron said, as if that wasn't clear enough the first time he said it. "We've come to get you to the common room." Neville added helpfully.

Harry looked at them, wide-eyed. "Guys, its not in the dungeon, it's here! Its in the next corridor!"

"What? Then why did Quirrell say it was in the dungeons?" Ron demanded.

"Because he's insane!" Harry shouted back, adding to the fever pitch of insanity than seemed to be sweeping the room.

"You promise you're not having me on?" Hermione said from the cubicle

"We promise!" The assembled group outside chorused impatiently, their fear bleeding through in their voices.

"Fine. I'm coming out, but if you three are planning something I'll tell a Professor and you'll all be in nothing but trouble!"

The cubicle door opened, to reveal a tired, ragged Hermione Granger. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her face was streaked with tears. Her upper lip was quivering with fear, and she looked at each of them with narrowed eyes, as if expecting the other shoe to drop. Her bushy hair, normally in a state of orderly disorder, was now an exercise in chaos theory, and her robes were creased.

Everybody looked at each other expectantly in a surreal moment of confusion. Surely escaping from mortal peril had not been so easy? Then, as one, they all wrinkled their noses as a miasma of mould, sweat, and a thousand other unnameable smells washed over them, hitting them like a solid wall.

Ron and his quick mouth were the first to react. "Urgh, what's that smell? S'disgustin." He said in between shallow breaths.

"It's the troll, it's here! C'mon, we need to-"

A loud crash echoed around the bathroom, followed by a blast of odorous air as the beast peered into the room. It looked at the four students, frozen in varying states of fear and disgust. Stupidly, it just stared at them for a moment, as if confused by the notion that there were four potential sources of meat just standing there. Then, its face lit up in a terrifying caricature of a smile. It squeezed itself through the doorframe, its fatty stomach scraping against the edges.

Harry was the first to speak, forcing a reply through frozen lips. "Run!" He cried as the monster began to walk towards them with its long, loping strides. Ron and Hermione reacted immediately, pulling themselves away from the sight and dashing to the back of the room. Neville didn't. Neville stood there, transfixed by the sight.

Harry wasn't having any of it. Pulling his arm to behind his back, he released a mighty open palm slap that went right across Neville's cheek.

Neville recoiled with a cry, his hands going to his face which was already going red with the force of the impact.

"Go!" Harry commanded, pointing to the back of the room. Neville's white face nodded, and he retreated hastily.

Harry turned to look at the monster that was approaching. It looked back at him with cruel yellow eyes as it raised its club, ready to strike. It was still a few metres away, giving him a few moments. Harry wasn't about to waste them. He dashed to his left, running into the cubicle Hermione had vacated just moments earlier. As far as he was concerned, they had one chance. Trolls were notoriously clumsy and stupid. They would undoubtedly go for the group with the largest amount of prey. In other words, Harry's housemates. That left him at a loose end. Pulling his wand out of his sleeve pocket, he pointed it at the opposing wall.

"Epoxomise!" He cried, casting a sticky green goo that stuck at about waist height on the wall opposite.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Ron shouted as the thing began to close.

"Funemconjuro!" He cast, tracing his wand in a rough approximation of an 'S', and flicking it at the end. Immediately, a rope shot from his wand, landing on the gooified spot. It was not a moment too soon. With one end of the rope trailing from his wand, and the other stuck on the wall, the troll was too focused on his prey to see anything else. Its foot caught on the improvised tripwire. With a startled bellow, it fell heavily, its reactions too slow to stop itself from falling onto its hand. The beast head cracked onto the tile, shattering it fully in half. Its club fell from the thing's hand, coming to rest a metre or so away from Neville, Ron, and Hermione. Then, after the tremendous crash, there was a short, stunned silence. Harry strode out from the stall triumphantly, the rope disappearing from reality as he shook his hand (which, ably supported by his wand, had taken the brunt of the animal's weight.

Ron spoke up first. "Is…is it-"

The beast let out another bellow of pain, its hand flailing about to find purchase with which to haul itself up.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Ron said in fright, point his wand at the fallen troll's club. To everybody's surprise, the heavy weapon began to rise as the troll crawled forward, reaching with its long to grab one of its target. It heaved itself forward again as the club continued to rise. Harry tensed as it came within half a foot of grabbing Neville, who flattened himself against the wall, his face white tiher fear. If Ron didn't drop it soon – he needn't have worried. Ron released the spell and the club, robbed of its levitating force, bowed to the whims of gravity. Point first, it fell towards the ground, landing on its former owner with a sickening crack. The skull was stoved inwards, and the beast fell silent.

Harry whistled in silent amazement. Ron Weasley, performing a spell flawlessly and vanquishing a troll…all in the span of a minute! He never thought he'd see the day. Harry's compatriots, meanwhile, seemed more concerned with the blood spilling out of the troll's skull than the success of Ron Weasley. Ron was ashen-faced, alternating between staring at his wand and the giant. Neville had his eyes shut, and Harry was certain he was sobbing to himself. Hermione, open mouthed, was just looking at the fallen troll.

Harry just smiled contentedly. Disaster averted. He felt he had enough evidence to get Dumbledore to force Quirrell to remove his turban, and he had helped kill the trespassing troll (hopefully gaining the admiration of the school as he did so.) Suddenly lighthearted, he wondered at how badly it could have gone, especially the first time. If Snape hadn't been there to…to stop Quirrell…

On reflex, Harry gasped in shock. Snape! Snape probably wasn't heading to the third floor to stop Quirrell, he was probably rushing to protect the Boy-Who-Lived who had been left in danger of the invading troll, as where the rest of the faculty! Which meant that the Dark Lord himself now had access to the Philosopher's Stone. And it was all Harry's fault.

Well, he'd be damned if he was going to let Quirrell get away with it. He'd beaten the possessed bastard once, and he could do it again.

"Neville!" He snapped impatiently, startling the group out of their stupor. "Go to the dungeons. Now. Go and tell the teachers Quirrell is trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. They'll know what I mean. You two go with him. I'm going up to the locked room on the third floor.

Everybody looked blankly at him for a moment, before they all began talking back at him at once.  
"The what?"

"W-w-w-what? Harry, what are you, what are you talking about?"

"The Philosopher's Stone? As in The Philosopher's Stone?"

"Shut up!" Harry shouted back. "Quirrell's trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, which is hidden behind a number of obstacles behind the locked room on the third floor. I'm going to keep him busy until the teachers get there. Now go!"

Hermione was the first to reply. "Harry, a teacher would never do such a thing! They're here to educate not to steal-"

"Now is not the time to debate, alright? Do as I say, now! Trust me. Please."

The three looked at each other for a moment.

"Mate, if you're gonna stop Quirrell, you'll need help. Blimey, I know you're Harry Potter and all, but you're only a first year! I'm coming with you." Ron said simply, his voice with a depth of seriousness Harry never knew it could convey.

"I'm coming too." Hermione said, her voice shaken but her tone firm.

"I-I-I'm coming too, Harry. I dunno how, but I can help."

Harry looked at the three in surprise, and with a little anger. The last thing he wanted right now was to put his friends in danger!

Wait.

Friends? Were these people, for so long his nemeses and targets, really his friends? He shrugged off that discomfiting question, returning to the task at hand.

"No! You guys, I can do it, really, I don't want you guys risking your lives for me! Please, just do what I ask."

"Sorry, Harry, but no. You saved our lives, mate, we're gonna try to save yours back."

"Precisely. I couldn't've put it better myself."

"Yeah. What they said."

Harry fiddled with his glasses in frustration. Couldn't they have chosen a better time to prove their loyalty. Still, he didn't have time to argue, and admittedly they could be useful. "Fine. Ron, Hermione, with me. Neville, I need you to run down and tell the teachers. Don't let anybody stop you, not Percy Weasley, not Malfoy, not anybody. Can you do that?"

"I-I think so."

"You can Neville, I know it." How could he not? It wasn't exactly a hard task to run down two flights of stairs and find a teacher. "Alright, let's do this."

With that, Harry turned on his heel and hurried out of the room, his friends following close behind.


	16. Chapter 16

“Good luck.” Neville said solemnly, as he began to walk down the marble steps to the ground floor.  
Harry nodded in recognition “Thanks. Remember, we’re counting on you.”  
“I won’t let you down.” With that, the round faced boy began sprinting down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Harry watched him for a moment, wincing as the child stumbled for a moment before recovering. It wouldn’t do to have his messenger crack his head open on the marble steps.   
“Alright, you two.” Harry said with a renewed sense of urgency. “Stick behind me. Behind the door there’s a Cerberus. Don’t panic, just start singing “Mary had a Little Lamb and we’ll be fine.”  
Ron smiled weakly at his jest. “Do we need to do any dancing as well?”   
“I’m serious, Ron. It’ll probably have been put to sleep by Quirrell, but if it hasn’t, do what I say, when I say it.”  
“Cerberuses are lulled to sleep by music, Ron.” Hermione explained, managing the herculean task of only sounding slightly patronising. “But, speaking of Quirrell, are you sure he is trying to steal this.. Philosopher’s Stone? If you’re wrong, we could be in really big trouble.”  
“Besides,” Ron added. “How could Quirrell steal anything? He can barely finish a sentence!”  
“Because I reckon Quirrell’s been possessed by You-Know-Who.” Harry said impatiently, as he began walking up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  
Ron and Hermione stopped mid stride. They exchanged a look as Harry’s steps echoed through the cavernous space. “How…How would you know that?” Hermione asked quietly.   
“The scar!” Ron answered triumphantly, flashing a grin at the girl. “He can sense You-Know-Who with it, right Harry?”  
Harry looked back at the two, who were trailing behind him. “Yes, that’s right, very clever Ron.” He said in a tone that suggested it was the opposite. “Now come on, we don’t have time to waste.”  
“Wait, you mean we’re going to try to stop You-Know-Who ourselves? We can’t do that, we’re only first years! We have to go back and find Dumbledore!” Hermione quailed, her voice rising in panic.  
Ron looked nervously at her for a moment, and then at the fleeing back of Harry, who was now a little ahead of them, and didn’t seem to be slowing his pace to let them catch up. He smiled unsurely at Hermione. “Harry beat him once though, yeah? He can do it again.” He said, trying to sound reassuring.   
Hermione looked at him for a moment, searching his face for a hint of doubt. After a moment, she gave a satisfied nod, although her face remained pale. “Well…let’s make sure he doesn’t have to do it alone.”

Harry, his compatriots just behind, pushed the door open gently, waiting for the telltale growling and gnashing of teeth. There was none. Instead, there was a low intake of breath, followed by a snort. Another breath. Another snort. Harry nodded happily as he left the cover of the doorframe, stepping into the darkened room. On the other side, a sleeping, three-headed, oversized canine was snoring as an enchanted harp tinkled prettily.   
“Alright, it’s asleep. Quickly, through the trapdoor. Remember, don’t panic when you hit the Snare.” He whispered, before stealing over to the trapdoor. Ron and Hermione followed soon after, each muffled footstep making Harry wince.   
Ron grabbed the trapdoor, and pulled it up and back. It swung open, revealing a pitch black hole. He looked up at Harry nervously. “You’re sure it’s not too far, right?”  
Harry nodded with a confidence he did not feel. “Yep. Follow me.” With that, he heaved himself over the lip.  
His heart started beating madly as he fell into the inky blackness, his mind rushing through all the ways he could have miscalculated. What if the snare wasn’t in place yet? What if the room had been changed before he and Draco went through its trials? What if-  
He landed with a soft fwump on the cold, damp ‘floor’, his hand immediately going for his wand.   
“Harry are you alright down there?” An anxious girl’s voice called down to him from the small hole of light above.   
“Yeah, I’m fine!” He said, as he grasped his wand with a sigh of relief.   
Suddenly, there was a girlish scream from above, followed by a loud roar.   
“It’s awake!” Ron screamed, before the light the hole up above was obscured for a moment by a shadow.  
Harry dove to his right as a body plummeted down the shaft and into the room with him, landed with a muffled thump and the whoomp of air being driven from the lungs.  
“Who’s that, what’s going on?” Harry demanded quickly at the blackness.   
Another loud roar from above, followed by a startled cry of pain. Once again, the light was obscured as a shadow jumped from the higher room. As it fell, there was a wordless exclamation of terror that echoed throughout the chamber before it was abruptly halted with an echoing thump in the darkness.  
“Lumos.” Harry muttered, holding his wand out in front of him.   
His wand lit up with an arcane glow, revealing a small, green room. Ron and Hermione were on the ground, tendrils already curling around their arms and legs as they looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. Immediately, Harry’s gaze was drawn to the three deep gashes running down Ron’s left leg, already leaking blood. As his spell lit up the room, he could feel the green vines recoiling from his ankles, slinking away to the other darkened parts of the room.   
He ran over to the bound children, his Lumos brightening further as he pushed more power into the incantation. The insidious green tentacles retreated from their prey, recoiling from the almost blinding light.   
Ron, his face scrunched up and teary, clutched his bleeding leg, looking up at Harry pleadingly. Hermione just stared at the blood pooling on the cobblestones in shock, her face white with shock and her hand clasped over her mouth.  
“Hermione, help me get him to the door!” Harry shouted as he leant down on one knee to help Ron to his good leg.  
“S’okay, Harry. I..I think I can walk on it.” Ron groaned, clasping Harry’s hand firmly. Swiftly, he was back on his feet, albeit with one leg being favoured over the other.

With that problem dealt with, Harry turned his attention to his other compatriot. “Hermione?” He asked gently, looking at the frozen girl, who stared back at him with wide, scared eyes. “We really have to go.” He explained, using his most calming tone of voice.   
Hermione nodded, her eyes still fixed on the claw marks in her housemate’s leg. Almost reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the scene, and not a moment too soon.   
The Devil’s Snare, beginning to adjust to the new light, started to creep back, its serpentine green appendages casting shadows on the walls. As one, the trio rushed towards the door, Ron almost skipping as he tried to put as little weight as possible on his wounded leg. Harry brought up the rear, brightening his spell further to compensate for the Snare’s adaption.   
Hermione wrenched open the creaky wooden door, nearly hitting herself with it in her blind panic. As she held it open, Ron rushed through, his leg dripping blood onto the cobblestones. Hermione went through a moment after, immediately putting her back under Ron’s shoulder as a makeshift crutch for the injured boy. Finally, Harry backed his way through as his spell started to falter. As the Snare marshalled its courage for one last assault, he kicked close the heavy wooden door. Trial two, complete.  
Exhausted, he rested his body on the wall, letting his body recharge as Ron went to the floor behind him. It really was pathetic how far his magical core had deteriorated since he arrived. Less than six months ago, he would have been able to hold that spell, even at that intensity, for days. Now he’d been barely able to hold it for thirty seconds.   
“Harry?” Hermione asked timidly from behind him, rudely interrupting his self-loathing. “Ron’s bleeding.”   
“Well thanks for pointing out the obvious, Granger.” Harry said acridly as he pushed himself off the wall to take stock of the situation. Immediately, he regretted his words. Hermione’s lip trembled, and her face was white with fear. Her eyes twitched to and fro, betraying her rising panic. Great.  
Harry adjusted the rims of his glasses for a moment, taking comfort from the familiar feeling of the black plastic in his hands. He looked up, taking in the sight of a thousand winged keys diving and flying around the upper half of the room. One of them, assuming nothing had changed since last time, was the key.   
“Harry?” Hermione prompted, looking nervously at a rapidly-whitening Ron.  
Right. One thing at a time. Harry looked down at his wounded friend, his eyes examining the blood blossoming from the rips in the skin. Already, his trousers were becoming stained with a crimson tide.   
“It looks worse than it.” Harry said, trying and failing to sound comforting. “Give me a sec, and you’ll be good as new.”  
“But..how?” Hermione interjected, her natural curiosity overpowering her panic for a moment.  
“We’ll need to cut it off.” Harry said coolly, his wand whipping up to the ready.  
Ron and Hermione simultaneously let out a wordless shriek of protest, before noticing the slight smile on the Boy-Who-Lived’s face.  
“I’m kidding. Obviously. Just give me a moment.” With that, he lowered his wand at the wounds, ignoring the angry looks on Hermione’s face as she absorbed the untimely joke.  
“Vulnera Sanentur.” Harry chanted, his body tensing as his child’s core tried to summon the power required to complete the spell.  
“Vulnera Sanentur” Harry chanted again, as the deep gashes began to close, the flesh knitting itself together. But it did not come without a cost. Harry could feel the edges of his vision slowly blurring, and he was almost swaying on his feet.  
“Vulnera…Sanent…ugh..” As he chanted the words for a third and final time, he felt a sudden release, as if the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. As his vision blackened, and his exhausted body thankfully began to sink to the floor, he felt two weak arms loop around his chest. Then, his world went dark.


	17. Chapter 17

“Harry?” The voice said.  
Harry groaned, and shifted on his unusually cold and hard bed.   
“Harry?” The voice said again, more insistently this time.  
Harry sighed internally. Getting up was the lesser of two evils compared to suffering the wrath of the Dursleys. But…his bed, despite its almost stonelike texture, was so very, very comfortable. Strangely so. He felt an insistent tugging on his arm. It was…tender, a far cry from the usual ham-handed roughness of Uncle Vernon or Dudley. It was more similar to Petunia’s spidery grasp, but somehow.. softer. He might have compared it to a mother’s touch, had he known what that felt like.   
“Harry!”  
“Coming Petunia.” He mumbled, his hand already outstretched and searching for the glasses on his bedside table.  
“Harry, if you can hear us, please wake up. Please.”  
Please? Please was not a word in the Dursley Dictionary, and in fact took proud place next to “sorry” and “well done Harry” in phrases never to be uttered under their roof.  
Blearily, Harry opened his eyes.   
“Harry!” Hermione and Ron cried in unison as they looked down at his prone form.  
Immediately, Harry felt a sharp pain behind his eyes.   
“No noise, please.” He said quietly as he fumbled his way onto his belly. “My head is killing me and I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.”   
Ron looked at him quizzically at that, whilst Hermione just nodded understandingly.   
“It’s your core, you clearly over-“   
“I bloody well know what it was. C’mon, lets just get this over with.” Harry snapped, his ill temper already starting to take hold. If there was one thing he did not need whilst suffering the equivalent of a magical hangover, it was a Hermione Granger lecture. “Ron, help me up.”

Ron looked at him strangely, and glanced up at Hermione’s crestfallen face for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he offered his hand down to his friend.   
Harry took it gratefully, and catapulted up off the hard surface. In the middle of the room he could see the broom, floating gracefully in midair. Above it flew a hundred different winged keys. One of them, of course, would have a slightly bent wing, which would indicate that it unlocked the foreboding door on the other side of the room. He stood there for a few moments, scanning the roof as his compatriots exchanged nervous glances behind him.   
“Harry?” Ron finally ventured, after the silence become unbearable for him. “You, er, alright mate?”  
“I’m fine.” Came the curt reply.  
“Its just that, well…you’re not acting-“  
“There!”   
“What?” Hermione and Ron said in unison.   
“There! See that key, the one with the bent wing? Its flying irregularly. That’s the one we need.”  
Ron and Hermione stared at each other for a moment, both equally confused. Then, Hermione’s face began to light up.  
“You mean that’s the key we need to unlock the door!”  
“Of course that’s what I mean.”   
Ron gestured to the appropriately placed broom. “I s’pose you’re meant to use the broomstick? I dunno how they expect us to catch it though.”  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Well of course they don’t expect us to catch it, this was clearly designed to waste time for any would-be intruder by forcing them to fly around trying to catch some tiny little key. If it was designed to test some first year’s flying prowess, then you could just cast, say…” Harry took his wand out to drive the point home. “Accio Key, and then…” Harry trailed off midsentence. The “true” key, which had a second ago been flying with the rest of its flock, had stopped. And to make things worse, the spell seemed to have had the strange side effect of making it larger.  
Oh.  
Harry dived to the right as the key cut through the air where he had just been standing. It flew between Hermione and Ron, and clattered onto the floor in a shower of sparks.  
“And then it would come right towards us.” Harry finished, his eyes wide with shock and alarm.  
“Blimey. Harry, was that sposed to happen?” Ron said, staring blankly at the space where a deadly projectile had nearly skewered him.   
“No… no it was not.” Harry said, still staring at where the key had come to rest.  
“Harry,” Hermione began, in that tone that suggested she was trying to work her way through a logic puzzle. “That key should have been enchanted against Charms, especially something as simple as an Accio.”  
“Maybe…maybe they just forgot?” Ron suggested weakly.  
“I’m sure the teachers wouldn’t just ‘forget’ to enchant the most important item in the room, Ron.” Hermione reproved, her faith in teachers clearly stronger than her faith in Ron’s logical capabilities.  
“Well…maybe its enchanted so it detects evil! It knew Harry was good, and so it went to him! Right, Harry?” Ron suggested in a rare show of intelligence as he looked to his friend for support.  
“Maybe…maybe.” Harry mumbled, mostly to himself as he absorbed this strange piece of information that did not at all compute. “In any case, it doesn’t matter now. Let’s get going.”   
With that, Harry walked over to the key as its wings desperately fluttered against the cold stone floor. Behind him, Ron and Hermione shifted nervously, unsure whether to follow or to keep watch for any other rogue keys that were flying about.   
“C’mon. Let’s go, there’s still a Dark Lord to delay or defeat, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“This has got to be a trap.”  
“A fact I’m quite aware of, Ron.”  
“I mean really, they couldn’t just have left a random room all empty like this.”  
“Ron does have a point, Harry. They wouldn’t have just left a room free. Not without a good reason, at any rate.”  
Harry rubbed his temples strenuously, hoping that in doing so he’d start to alleviate the pounding headache behind his eyes. No such luck. His head remained in pain and the seemingly empty room remained as inscrutable as it had been thirty seconds ago. In his head, he tried to work out which was more likely. Ron Weasley being correct, or the Hogwarts staff forgetting to trap the seemingly empty room. If he was being honest, neither seemed like something even the most outrageous gambler would put stakes on. Thinking back, he tried to remember what had been here the first time he’d run this particular gauntlet.

First it had been the Cerberus, which Draco had cleverly put to sleep with his voice backed up by a two part harmony from Crabbe and Goyle.  
Then the snare, which Blaise had incendio’d into submission.   
Then the keys, which Harry had managed to snag after what seemed like an eternity of flying between sharp winged objects  
Then there’d been…  
“A troll!” Harry exclaimed dramatically, startling Ron and Hermione, each of whom began to look at him like he’d gone insane.  
“A...what?” Hermione questioned, her curiosity getting the better of her concern for his wellbeing.  
Ron had no such compulsions. “No, Harry, mate. We beat the troll, we’re trying to-“  
“I know what we’re trying to bloody do.” Harry snapped angrily. “I meant there’s meant to be a troll here.”  
Ron contemplated the room for a moment. Whilst spacious, it was well lit, and there were few, if any, nooks or crannies for something as big, dumb, and odorous as a troll to hide. “Well…there’s nothing here now, I reckon. Do you think Quirrell let it out?”  
Harry almost dismissed the point out of hand. Most things that came out of Ron Weasleys mouth were, in his not-so-humble opinion, either inane, amusing, food-related, or some combination of the three. Of course, there had once been a fourth option, a Lord-VoldeHarry insult, but given the changed circumstances of their relationship, it seemed…unlikely he’d have to navigate that particular brand of unpleasantness again.   
But in this case, Ron had a genuinely good point. An occurrence which Harry noted seemed to be much more common than he remembered it being the first time around. Perhaps the troll had not come from outside the school, as Harry had originally presumed. Perhaps it had actually come from inside the school, courtesy of one Quirinius Quirrell. And if it did come from inside the school…   
“It’s empty.” Harry said with relief.  
“But how can you be so sure? I doubt if the teachers had laid traps in here they’d make it obvious. Besides, how do you know there’s supposed to be a troll in here?”  
“I’ll tell you later.” Harry said, with precisely zero intent of following up on that statement. “But I’m quite certain that the room’s empty. C’mon, we don’t have any more time to waste!”  
With that, he took off at a sprint, his footsteps echoing on the flagstone walls. The most difficult challenges were yet to come. A moment later, Ron followed. Harry was almost at the door when…  
“No.”  
Harry froze, his hand comically stuck in midair reaching for the door. Incredulously, he slowly turned on his heel. Looking past a similarly stunned Ron, he saw Hermione, her arms folded severely, standing in the middle of the room.   
“I’m not going. And you two shouldn’t be either.”  
Ron looked at Harry, his mouth open in a gesture of surprise. Clearly, it was beyond his admittedly limited intellectual abilities as to why somebody wouldn’t follow the Boy-Who-Lived into yet another life-threatening challenge, a feat to be shortly followed by probable combat with a Dark Wizard.   
“Hermione, I’d love to sit here and discuss this with you all day, but in case you haven’t noticed, there’s an evil wizard planning to steal one of the few things that could bring the Dark Lord back to life. So, perhaps we should argue about this-“  
“No!” Hermione stamped her foot huffily on the ground, her eyes blazing angrily. “Why on Earth would Professor Quirrell try to steal this…Philosopher’s Stone? He’s a teacher! What could he possibly have to gain?”  
“I wonder, Hermione, what a single wizard could have to gain for giving the single most dangerous dark wizard this side of Grindelwald his life back?”   
Hermione hesitated for a second, seeing the logic of his argument. But the fire in her eyes would not let her be so easily convinced.  
“Well…fine, let’s assume I agree with you. We’re first years! It’s not as if there’s anything we could do to stop him. I know you might be able to do something, but what could Ron or I do? He nearly died, Harry. Ron nearly died.” Hermione sniffled at that one, as her chest began to heave with emotion. “and..and you blacked out, and now..” Her eyes welled up with tears, and she motioned helplessly towards the door that led to the Chess challenge.   
Harry hesitated. She had a point. He wanted Ron for the chess match. Hell, he needed Ron for the chess match. But was it really worth risking his life for it? What if he just turned around, right now, and waited for the teachers to come and sort it out? Quirrell and his parasitic friend surely couldn’t escape. And they had to fight their way out, they’d have to fight against the greatest wizard of the age, some of his chief lieutenants, and the boy who lived.   
“and…and..” Hermione sobbed for a moment. “I don’t want to lose my friends.” She said quietly, almost to herself. Then, she promptly burst into tears.  
Harry very nearly succumbed. He was so close to going over to the sobbing girl, wrapping his arms around her, and abandoning the whole, foolish adventure. Was it really worth risking his life, and the lives of his…  
The lives of others, just so he could do the same thing he had done in his own timeline? Was it really worth fighting and scraping and battling just so Quirrell couldn’t get his hands on some stupid stone that might not even work in bringing the Dark Lord back to life?  
But those eyes, staring up at him. They still haunted up at him, staring into his soul.   
There was already enough death on his conscience.  
Voldemort and Quirrell, if they succeeded, would fight to their last breath against the Hogwarts faculty. There would be casualties. And there was no telling if the great battle of the age would spill over into the school itself.   
He couldn’t let them win.   
He couldn’t add another notch to the tally of the dead he’d failed.   
With that, he came to a decision.  
“Ron. I’m sorry I brought you so far. I should have left you with Neville. I want you to stay here, with Hermione.”  
Ron looked at him, his freckles becoming more prominent by the second as the blood drained from his face. “Harry…you can’t be serious. I’ve got to come with you. What if you need me? No, I’m staying with you.” He set his jaw firmly, attempting to look determined.  
“Ron…you’ve already been hurt. You could have died. And we’re not even close to being done. If you come with me, you will almost certainly die. I’m sure of it.” He lied. “You have to stay here. Wait with Hermione. Explain to the teachers what happened.”   
Ron looked at him, his skin pallid and pale, and his eyes filled with fear. “No. I’m coming with you.”   
“No, Ron, seriously, I can do this, I-“  
“I don’t care. Friends don’t let friends walk into danger alone.” Ron swallowed nervously. “that’s what being a friend means. That’s what makes us different from Malfoy, and the Slytherins. If you don’t want me with you, you’re going to have to force me not to.”  
Staring into his friend’s eyes, Harry idly reached for his wand.


	18. Chapter 18

As he reached for his wand, Harry couldn’t help but reflect on how brilliant it felt to have to force somebody not to follow him into mortal peril. Of course, the knowledge that this action would likely irreparably affect his friendship with that someone, lead to yet more guilt on his conscience, and quite possibly lead to his ostracism from the Lion’s Den was not, as he would term it, a ‘brilliant feeling’. However, the realisation that he was friends with somebody who was willing to risk their life for him, not out of ambition or expectation of future reward, but merely for the sake of loyalty was a welcome change of pace.   
It was a shame that friendship was about to come to an end.  
His fingers curled around the familiar yew of his wand, his heartbeat quickening as they made contact with the sublimely crafted wood.   
Then, something particularly curious happened.   
Harry Potter hesitated.  
This was not, in and of itself, an unusual occurrence. Harry knew that he was impulsive, and made every effort to rein in those impulses. Usually, he did this so successfully he was oft compared with the mascot of his (former) house.  
But this. This was different.   
This was a chance to stun Ron Weasley. The boy who had been somewhere between irritating and downright cruel for much of his post-cupboard life. And he didn’t want to do it.  
If only his past (and future) self could see him now.   
Slowly, reluctantly, his grasp on the yew began to loosen. Part of his mind screamed at him to do it, to take out the wand and blast the redhead with a stupefy. Another, more insidious part of his mind congratulated him on not letting morality and misplaced guilt get in the way. The chess match would be far easier with a child prodigy on his side.  
He took a deep, shuddering breath. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.   
He opened his eyes to see Ron still staring at him, his eyes painfully guileless. As far as Harry could tell, he hadn’t moved an inch when Harry had gone for his wand. They locked eyes for a moment. There was a slight, almost imperceptible nod that passed between them.   
“Fine.” Harry said, almost bitterly. “Let’s do it.” 

Hermione Granger was, to put it mildly, not having the most pleasant day.   
It had started well, of course. She’d gotten out of bed, read a little, done some homework. The usual routine. Nobody had spoken to her at breakfast, of course, but she’d chosen to eat early to avoid people anyway. In fact, by the time for Charms had rolled around, she was feeling more confident than usual since she’d arrived in this strange world.  
Then, in class, the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Ron Weasley couldn’t do it. He was saying the words wrong, he was stabbing more than he was flicking, and Hermione knew how to fix it. She had felt destiny calling out to her. That had been her chance to make a new friend. A first friend.   
Of course, the universe loved to play with Hermione Granger. It had all gone terribly wrong.  
Several hours of tears and breakdowns later, Hermione was almost feeling better. Her eyes may have been puffy, and she suspected she was missing the feast, but the pain was mostly drowned in a sea of tears.  
She had cringed as she heard the door open and close, hoping the mysterious interloper didn’t hear her piteous sniffles.   
Then he’d said her name. The boy-who-lived-and-didn’t-like-her was looking for her. For a second she’d allowed herself to hope. But she’d quashed that spark, ruthlessly. It was another trick. She was certain. Her suspicions had been confirmed when Potter had claimed a troll, of all things, had managed to infiltrate the castle! Well, Hermione had read Hogwarts: A History more than enough times to know that there were dozens of enchantments to make that next to impossible.  
And then he’d said sorry.   
And it sounded like he meant it.   
What felt like an eternity later, and she could still hear him saying it.   
“I’m sorry.”   
Every time she thought of it, a little bit of her felt warm inside. Nobody had ever apologised to her before. Well, nobody her own age, at any rate.   
And then he’d done something nobody her own age had done.  
He’d saved her from a troll. He’d put his own life at risk, just to protect her, and his friends.   
The Harry Potter she’d read about had come alive in that instant, and she felt like she was reading one of her stories.  
Then, she’d been given a chance to join in. To join in the story of a lifetime. Professor Quirrell was trying to steal the “Philosopher’s Stone” from the school, and Harry wanted to stop him alone.   
No way.  
Hermione Granger was many things, but a coward was not one of them. She was, after all, a Gryffindor. Of course, that isn’t to say she hadn’t reconsidered her course of action when it turned out to she’d have to work through a gauntlet of trials, including a Cerberus and a Devil’s Snare. But she comforted herself by thinking how she was alongside Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Surely he would protect them! He’d already done so much. He’d solved the mystery of the Black Wand when he was only seven years old! Surely he could do this.  
Well, she wasn’t wrong. He could do it just fine. She, on the other hand, was not having as easy a time. It turned out that an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of a variety of spells and books, both fiction and non-fiction, was not particularly helpful with helping one escape death at the hands of ravenous three headed dogs, or murderous tentacle-plants. The realisation that she was in a situation that books could not help with had, of course, set her mind reeling, but she had mostly stayed in control.  
And then she saw the wound. Ron Weasley was not, to put it mildly, her favourite person. Admittedly, the fact that he had helped her get away from a three-headed dog had been a point in his favour, but it was hardly an equaliser to several months of exclusion, and the occasional brutal argument. But despite their fractious history, she really, really did not want him to die. But once again, Harry Potter had swooped in to the rescue. Hermione had watched in awe as Harry cast a spell she had never even heard of before (because of course he could do that) and, magically, the deep gashes in Ron’s leg had closed up. She’d been so caught up in the euphoria that she hadn’t noticed his body going loose, or his eyes fluttering. Then suddenly, he was falling, and she was rushing forward to catch him.  
That had been the last straw. If Harry Potter couldn’t do it, how could she? Harry was exhausted, unconscious on the floor, and she had just stood there and let it happen! She regretted even coming on this stupid jaunt. She was useless. She was just an anchor, weighing him down as he heroically charged into danger. She felt like she wanted to cry, or hit the wall, do anything that didn’t make her feel totally, utterly superfluous. Some Gryffindor she was turning out to be. She was cracking under the slightest pressure…and she hadn’t even had to do anything. Pathetic.  
At least Ron had some semblance of composure. Found a place to hide if Harry didn’t wake up soon. Admittedly he had chosen a corner of the room, but it was still better than she’d done. She had spent the time panicking about..everything. What if Harry was wrong? Would she get expelled? Detention? Surely the penalties for risking the lives of herself and her friends would be beyond severe. Worse yet, what if Harry wasn’t wrong? What if Quirrell really was trying to resurrect Voldemort? Not only would she be helping him by slowing Harry down, she would be putting the entirety of Wizarding Britain at risk! Just so she could-   
He’d woken up, and gotten right to work. But that was just like Harry Potter. Pushing through all the pain he must be feeling to do the right thing. That was a real Gryffindor. Not like…not like her.  
As she was standing there, in the middle of the room where they would have had to fight a troll, it hit her. They were going to get hurt. Or worse.  
No. He couldn’t do this. And she couldn’t just let Harry and Ron go to their deaths without at least trying to stop them.  
But they didn’t care what she had to say. Why would they? She was Hermione Granger, bookworm. Hermione Granger, the girl who would rather read what was happening to others than live what was happening to her. Hermione Granger, the girl who would be known as the one who let Harry Potter and Ron Weasley go to their deaths alone because she was too much of a coward to go with them.  
No.   
She wasn’t about to let that happen. Hermione Granger would not be remembered as the sniffling little girl who sat on the stone floor while others went and did something she’d read about later. If they were going to…to die, then she was going to die alongside them.  
For once, Hermione Granger was going to write her own story.  
And maybe, just maybe, she’d have friends beside her when she did.

“Wait.”   
Harry froze, and looked back over his shoulder. Hermione stalked over towards him, her hands balled up into fists. He could even see her knuckles whitening with the intensity of her grip.   
“I’m coming with you.” She announced defiantly.   
Harry sighed dramatically. He was really beginning to regret bringing these two along. Not enough to stop them, admittedly, but it was still annoying. And worrying, his subconscious added. “Do you really have to?” He asked wearily.  
Hermione coloured, but stood her ground. “Yes.” She replied in that haughty tone of hers that brooked no arguments.   
“Alright, c’mon then.” Ron cut in. “Let’s go.” With that, he pushed open the door, marching into the room.  
Hermione followed him, stomping past Harry determinedly.   
“Well…here we go.” Harry said, to nobody in particular.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore stormed through the cold stone corridors of the dungeons, whipping his head back and forth with an agility that belied his age. “Harry?” He cried, his tone something between panic and anger. “Harry? Come out my boy, you’re not in trouble!”   
Nothing. There was definitely something amiss. And he suspected he knew what that something was.  
Professor Quirrell had always been an odd man. Prone to stuttering, and afraid of his own shadow, his accession to the prized title of DADA Professor had raised many eyebrows amongst those in the know in Wizarding Britain. Even with the paucity of qualified professors for the subject willing to risk the curse, surely, they argued, there was somebody better than a stuttering moron who habitually smelt of garlic. They weren’t wrong. There were plenty of qualified professors willing to brave the curse, if he asked them to. It was highly unlikely, however, that any of those teachers had the strategic value of having the spirit of Voldemort attached to them.   
When ‘Quirrell’ had claimed there was a troll in the dungeons, Albus had believed him. Why wouldn’t he? Assuming the man’s goal was the Philosopher’s Stone, why not put the distraction as far away as possible from the entrance to the gauntlet? When Severus had turned white, and explained Harry was down there, it had all seemed to make sense.  
But Harry wasn’t down there. Neither was the troll.  
For the first time in a decade, Albus was truly, terribly afraid.   
He’d been outmanoeuvred. Outplayed, and now his main weapon in the fi-  
“Professor!” A squeaky voice shouted from behind him.   
Dumbledore’s heart leapt for a moment.   
“Professor!” The voice said again, closer this time. Dumbledore frowned. It wasn’t Harry. He turned around to see the chubby form of Neville Longbottom, red faced and out of breath, charging towards him faster than his usual physical aptitude suggested possible.   
“Professor, it’s Harry! He’s gone with Ron and Hermione Granger!” He breathed heavily in and out, trying desperately to get his next sentence out.  
“Do calm yourself, Mr Longbottom.” Dumbledore fished in his robe for a moment, before pulling out a yellow lolly, wrapped in plastic. “Sherbet Lemon?” He said, with a calmness that contradicted his rapidly growing sense of anxiety.  
Neville waved away the sweet. “No, Professor, you don’t understand. It’s Quirrell! Harry says he’s trying to take the..er” The boy squinted for a moment, and his face adopted a quizzical expression. “Er…Philosopher’s Stone! He’s trying to take the Philosopher’s Stone, and Harry’s gone to stop him!”  
Dumbledore’s kindly façade dropped, replaced with a blazing intensity.  
“You’re sure? Harry has gone with Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger to stop the Professor from stealing the Philosopher’s Stone?”  
Neville was defiant. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m telling the truth, professor, I swear!”   
Damnit. Potter was ahead of schedule. The boy didn’t know enough about his parents yet to understand the power of love. Not to mention, would his friendship with the young Weasley be strong enough to survive the gauntlet? The tasks had been designed to test the boy’s abilities, but young Potter had barely learnt a single spell! How could he complete the flying keys when he barely knew how to fly? And what of Granger? As far as he was concerned-  
“Please sir, we need to get the other Professors, and go help him, immediately!”  
“Indeed, dear boy.” Albus said distractedly as he reached into his robe. “But wait here for a moment, if you would be kind.” As his fingers closed around his wand, he surreptitiously looked around, in case any of the faculty were nearby. Nobody. Finally, some luck that had gone his way.  
Neville obediently looked up at him as he pulled his wand out. “Are you going to appar-“  
A red light shot from the headmaster’s wand, striking the boy in the chest. The last thought in Neville’s mind wasn’t fear, or confusion. It was regret. He’d forgotten to tell the professor about the troll.   
Neville slumped, and almost fell, before being caught by Dumbledore’s outstretched hand. “My apologies, Mr. Longbottom.” He mumbled. “Obliviate!”

Sorry this chapter took so long, everybody, I don’t know why, but it was very difficult to write, and I’m still not entirely happy with the final product. But still, it’s done now, which I’m greatly relieved by. Hermione’s little arc has been wrapped up..ish, by this chapter, so don’t expect anything major from her POV for a little while. Also, for any Dumbledore fans out there, this is not going to be a Evil Dumbledore bashing story. He has a plan. He’s not evil. I’ll say no more, save that I’m really excited to write more of him.


	19. Chapter 19

In Harry Potter’s mind, chess had never been a particularly fun game. This was, of course, partly because he was mediocre at the game (and that was on his better days.). The main reason, however, was this bloody room. 

He could still remember walking into this room five years ago, still in shock after narrowly escaping death several times in less than ten minutes. He, Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy, and Blaise had all been bruised and battered. For a moment, excitement had coursed through their little group as they saw the chess pieces. Perhaps, this time, they would not have to risk life and limb. Of course, their hopes were quickly dashed when they had realised there were five pieces missing from the black side of the board. Because, of course, things did not come easily when Harry Potter was around.  
After twenty minutes of brutal back and forth (under the command of Malfoy and Blaise), they finally trapped the white king on the side of the board. But victory had not come without a cost. Crabbe and Goyle both lay mewling on the ground, covered in scratches and marble debris. Crabbe, they had later learnt, had several broken ribs, and Goyle’s middle finger on his right hand had been sticking out at a gruesomely obtuse angle after the rook he had been riding was traded for the white queen. 

“What are we supposed to do?” Whispered Hermione harshly, as if worried she was going to wake the towering chess pieces from their slumber.  
Harry tore himself from his trip down memory lane, and looked around the room. It was pristine. No trace could be seen of the game played before they had arrived. He wondered how long it had taken for Voldemort to rip his way through the animated pieces. Considering the man was one of two dark lords to actually threaten the status quo in four hundred years, he guessed it couldn’t have taken too long.  
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Ron said smugly. “We’ve got to play our way across the room.”  
Hermione’s eyes widened as she looked towards the stone board. “How?” She asked after a moment.  
“We’re going to have to be chessmen.” Harry cut in grimly.  
Ron nodded at that, before crossing over to the black side of the chess board. Gingerly, he poked a knight with his forefinger. Immediately, the figure sprang to life. The horse began pawing the ground, while the knight turned to look at Ron.  
“Er..We have to join you to get across, yeah?”   
The black knight nodded severely, before turning back to face his age-old foe.  
“We have to take the places of three of the pieces, I guess.” Harry suggested as he gestured to the board.   
Ron nodded absently, his forehead creased in thought.   
Harry just waited patiently, spending his time marvelling at the sight of Ron deep in thought about a choice that wasn’t related to food or condiments thereof.   
Hermione was the first to break the silence. “What-”  
“I don’t want to be rude or anything..but, er, neither of you are any good at chess, are you?” Ron cut in, his face as serious as Harry had ever seen it.   
“Well I wouldn’t say I was bad.” Hermione prevaricated, looking down at her toes nervously.  
“Just tell us what do.” Harry said quickly, eager to defuse any argument whilst Voldemort was allowed free reign with the Philosopher’s Stone. “And remember, this is probably Wizards Chess. And you know how Wizard’s Chess works…”   
Ron whitened, but nodded confidently (ignoring Hermione’s faint gasp of protest at being overlooked for command in favour of Ron Weasley). “Alright, well. Harry, you take the place of the kingside bishop. Hermione, you take kingside rook.” The pieces Ron had selected stiffened, before reluctantly pulling themselves off of the board, their heads bowed in dejection.   
“What about you?” Hermione asked nervously, understandably afraid of being commanded into battle by Ron Weasley.  
“I’m going to be a knight.”

The game started slowly. The white pieces assumed a more defensive posture, allowing Ron to develop his pieces and claim the centre. As Harry had suggested, the first trade (a queenside bishop for a white knight) was brutal. The black bishop neatly tripped the white knight with its staff, before running through the hapless piece with its staff. The bishop, after tossing the discarded piece to the side, was quickly taken by the queen, who used her twin swords to neatly carve massive gashes in the bishop, before sending the bishop to follow its first victim. Ron, upon seeing the massive cuts gouged into his piece, had absentmindedly rubbed his leg. After this, the game sped up dramatically. Well, as much as a chess game could, anyway. Whilst Harry and Hermione were kept safely behind the fort of pawns, Ron had no such reservations about himself. He leapt into the fray, making several critical forks, and tallying several pawns and a rook to his side of the ledger.  
The white pieces, however, were no less canny. And they showed no mercy. Broken black pieces quickly piled up on the other side of the board, as both sides scrapped for some advantage. After nearly ten minutes of the game, Ron had gained a slightly better position, but was a few pawns behind.   
From where he was standing, Harry didn’t really know how the game was going. Being at most half the size of most of the chess pieces made it hard to get a good read on the situation, and Ron’s face had been relentlessly intense for the entire game. But, as mediocre as player as he was, he knew it was..unusual to have two of your strongest pieces hiding for most the game, without developing them for some greater purpose. As little as he wanted himself or Hermione to be sacrificed, he also didn’t want Quirrell and Voldemort around Stone for longer than necessary.   
Apparently Hermione had come to the same conclusion.   
“Ron…” She reproved gently, like a mother speaking to a child. “You need to move us.”  
Ron coloured, but stood firm. “No, I can do this. Really. Just let me think.”  
“You do want to stop Quirrell from getting, the Stone, don’t you?” Hermione reasoned patiently. “If you just put me into position to attack that knight…”  
“Rubbish. Hermione, if you do that, you’ll get taken in two or three moves!” Ron explained.  
Hermione just nodded calmly. “I know.”  
With that, she began moving up the board, putting herself in position to attack the white knight that was supporting several pawns.   
“HAVE YOU GONE BLOODY MAD?” Ron screamed, his voice cracking in a mix of fury and abject terror. “THAT DOESN’T COUNT, I DIDN’T TELL HER TO-“  
But his protests were in vain. The second Hermione reached her destination, the white queen moved to support the knight. Harry just watched on, staring at Hermione’s shaking, tiny form as the faceless queen turned to look at her expectantly.   
“Just our bloody luck that you choose now to be a bloody Gryffindor.” Ron snarled angrily.   
Hermione set her shoulders, and began walking towards the white knight.  
“Wait, Hermione, please. I didn’t mean it! Stop! NOW!” Ron screamed, increasingly terrified.   
But Hermione didn’t stop. Slowly, she came to the knight, and gently pushed it. Almost daintily, the knight fell onto the ground, landing heavily on the cold floor. Then, he began to crawl towards the edge of the board with painfully overexaggerated movements. Hermione, white faced, just watched it go, ignoring Ron’s apoplectic shouting. The moment the fallen knight crawled over the invisible line between the game area and the rest of the room, the queen began to move. Harry, horrified, watched on as it slowly, inexorably advanced on the tiny, bushy haired girl. Hermione to her credit, didn’t try to run. She just stared at the hulking piece, calmly watching her doom approaching.   
Harry felt his fingernails digging into his palm as he watched on helplessly, just waiting for the blow to fall. Part of him knew she probably wouldn’t die. That part, however, was drowned out by the other parts of his brain yelling at him to step in before she was butchered by the crazed animate statue.   
As the queen loomed up above the girl, its twin swords raised above its head and ready to slice down, however, something happened. The animated piece jerked, its raised blades falling from the position as the pieces hands spasmed awkwardly. It froze for a moment, turning so still it could be mistaken for a statue. Then, in one slick move, the queen sheathed its blades. Then, drawing itself up to its full height, it plucked Hermione up by the scruff of her uniform. Hermione dangled in midair for a moment, held aloft by the Queen’s hand like a puppet on a string. Then she was tossed unceremoniously to the side, out of the game board.  
“Hermione!” Harry and Ron shouted in unison as she slid along the marble floor, her momentum eventually being gently halted by her back bouncing softly against the stone wall.   
There was an awful moment of shocked silence as Hermione lay on the ground, her back against the stone wall. Then, thankfully, her head began to rise, turning up to look at Ron. “Well?” She demanded bossily. “Go on then.” She gestured, prone on the ground, at the chess game still in progress.  
Ron just shook his head in disbelief. “Mental.” Harry saw him mouth to himself as he moved to take the pawn.   
“Check.” Ron said shakily, looking nervously around him as if worried a piece would materialise from thin air and decapitate him.  
The white pieces froze for a second, and Harry could have sworn he saw the wind go out of them. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the king moved towards Ron. Ron just nodded, satisfied. Using the stone stirrup of his horse, he spurred it onwards, charging at the queen. The horse’s head smashed into the centre mass of the piece, sending chunks of marble exploding out the back of the Queen. Haltingly, the queen toppled to the ground as its white subordinates watched on in defeat.  
A few moves later, it was all over. The black queen trapped the white king against the edge of the board, ably supported by Harry’s bishop. The white king dejectedly pulled off its crown, and threw it at Ron’s feet. Then all of the pieces began to shuffle off the board. The black pieces strutted, some throwing their arms around each other in a frankly alarming display of humanity. The white pieces, in comparison, trudged off the field, soundly defeated.   
The game was won.  
Gingerly, Hermione went to rejoin her comrades. Her palms were soundly skinned, and her uniform was now caked with a layer of dust. However, compared to the fate of the other victims of the white queen, it seemed she had gotten off rather lightly all told.  
“That was mental, Hermione.” Ron said breathlessly, his gleaming eyes belying his tone of voice.  
Hermione coloured a little, but shrugged it off. “It’s really not that impressive, Ron. I expect any good Gryffindor would do the same.”  
“Rubbish!” Ron exploded. “That was bloody brilliant. I’d like to see Malfoy or one of his twin gits do something like that, right Harry?” He smiled happily at Harry, failing to notice his friend stiffen slightly at the mention of the Slytherin trio. “If you do anything as half as wicked, Quirrell doesn’t stand a chance!”  
Harry was less effusive in his praise. Gently, he inclined his head towards Hermione. “It was very brave.” He said simply.  
If it was possible, Hermione went even redder. 

“Blimey. I knew Snape always had it in for us. How does he expect anybody to get this?” Ron squinted at the roll of paper. “Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind? Thanks Professor, really helpful advice, that.” Ron looked doubtfully at the purple fire that had sprung up behind them as soon as they entered the room. “So, do we need to do a spell or something?   
Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s a puzzle, Ron, not magic. Its brilliant, really. A lot of the greatest wizards don’t have an ounce of logic. They’d be stuck in here forever.”   
“Exhibit A.” Harry smiled, gesturing towards Ron.  
Ron, ignoring the jibe, whitened a little. “We’re not going to be stuck in here though, right Hermione?”   
“Of course not! Honestly.” Hermione shook her head at the lack of faith. “Everything we need is right here. Seven bottles. Three are poison. Two are wine. One will get us through the black fire;” she pointed to the archway which was engulfed in black fire, presumably the entrance to the room Harry knew would be the last. “and the other will get us back through the purple fire.”  
Harry nodded. It didn’t seem like anything had changed. He superficially glanced at the table, taking in the various heights of the different bottles. Slowly he bent down, scrutinising the smallest one. He thought he remembered that that was the one with the mixture that would get them through. Or, more correctly, get him through. He remembered having to leave Draco and Blaise here because the vial only had enough for one person, so he was pretty sure the smallest one was the right one. Of course, pretty sure tended to be what plenty of wizards with a few seconds to live had said when dealing with deadly poisons, a list that Harry had no desire to be added to.   
Gently, he tapped the small vial once. “It’s this one, right Hermione?”   
Hermione tilted her head slightly. “I’m not really sure yet. Give me a minute.” With that, she pulled the paper roll back to her face. Reading over it for a second, she out it down again, and glanced at the bottles. Nodding, she put it back to her face. Down again. Nod. Ron stood beside her awkwardly as she muttered to herself for a few moments.  
Then, abruptly, she clapped her hands. “Got it!”   
Harry winced as the sound echoed around the small stone chamber. “Hermione, you do realise Quirrell is probably on the other side of that black fire, right?”   
Hermione’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh dear. Harry, I’m so-“  
Harry waved his hand to cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. Did you figure it out?”   
Hermione nodded, still somewhat apologetic. “You were right. The small one gets you through the black fire.”  
Harry nodded. For a moment, he’d been fretting he’d turned into Neville. Gingerly, he picked the bottle up from the counter. Removing the cork stopper, he sniffed it experimentally. For some reason, it did little to calm his nerves.  
“Well…” Harry started. “I suppose this is it.”   
Ron and Hermione both started abruptly.   
“What do you mean?”  
“What are you talking about?” They chorused over each other angrily.  
“There’s only enough in here for one person.” Harry explained gently, holding the bottle up to his mouth. “You two go back and wait for the teachers to come. They should be here any second now. Thanks, both of you, for all your help, but-“ Bringing the bottle to his lips, he swallowed the whole mixture in a single swallow. “I have to do this alone.”  
“Harry, no!” Ron exclaimed. “I can help. We can help!”   
Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement, and crossed her arms in a vain attempt to look menacing.   
Harry smiled sadly. “No. You don’t stand a chance against him. Its not just Quirrell in there. Voldemort is too.”   
Ron and Hermione let out twin gasps of shock.  
“Sorry.” And with that eloquent parting word, Harry, his veins feeling as cold as ice, charged through the doorway, ignoring the shouts of protest coming from his friends. 

The shouts were rapidly drowned out by the roaring of the flames. His entire vision was flooded with midnight-black flames, licking at his skin and hair. Undeterred, he battled on, forcing his body onwards against its instinctual urge to run and hide. Then, blessedly, he was clear. He emerged on the other side unscathed, into yet another nondescript, yet large, stone room.  
In the middle of the room, his front presumably staring into the mirror, stood Professor Quirrell. No longer did he stoop a little, no did his shoulders hunch forward. Now he stood tall and proud, his back ramrod straight. “Ah, Potter. I was wondering if you’d be joining us.” He said menacingly. Harry could almost feel the cruel smirk he was sure was on the man’s face.  
“I’ve come to stop you, and your little passenger, Quirrell.” Harry proclaimed brazenly as if he were not an eleven year old ready to do battle with the most powerful wizard in a generation. It never hurt to have your opponent underestimate you.  
Slowly, Quirrell turned to face him, a mask of cold indifference on his face. “So, you worked it out, did you? Impressive, for one so young.” His hand whipped up to his turban. “Foolish, as well.” He began unravelling the headpiece. “For you to know about my..little secret, and still come bursting in here..well, I would say you are much like your father, Potter.”   
Harry’s fist tightened around his wand as he pulled it from its holster.  
The turban was almost off by now. “Yes, and soon, I shall give you an even greater gift, child. You shall have even more in common with your dearly departed.” He smiled cruelly as the last folds of the turban fell off his head, and the room was filled with a foul odour of rotting flesh. “Soon, you shall both be dead.”   
“Yess…” A frail, yet harsh voice whispered from behind the professor. “Soon..”  
Harry levelled his wand at the ‘pair’. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”   
Quirrell looked down at his wand critically, a sardonic grin plastered on his face. “Really, Potter? You expect to face the greatest dark lord of all time? And win?”   
“I’ve done it before.” Harry said resolutely.   
Of course, Quirrell had a point. Even if he was well rested, and had his old magical strength returned to him, he wouldn’t have much of a chance against Quirrellmort in a fair fight.   
Harry Potter, however, never did try to play fair.  
Quirrell snarled at the insult to his master. “You were an aberration, Potter. The Dark Lord shall have his vengeance on you, when he is returned to his faithful. I will find the Stone for him, and then he shall scatter your bones.”  
With that, Quirrell whipped around, back towards the strange mirror. Harry recoiled as the beady, blood-red eyes of Voldemort himself locked onto his own. Instinctively, he whipped a hand to his forehead as his scar began pulsing in pain.   
“Potter…” It said, every syllable of the word conveying unspeakable depths of pain and cruelty. “This..this is what you have done to me…it is only fitting you return me to my rightful place.”  
“Master?” Quirrell quivered. “You want me to use him to get the Stone?”  
“Yess, my faithful servant. Use him…and you will be greatly rewarded.”  
Harry resisted the urge to smile triumphantly as Quirrell turned, and began to close on him, his hands outstretched and greedily grasping. Then, suddenly, the professor halted.   
“Potter, I didn’t expect you to bring company.”  
What? Harry looked behind him, his eyes widening in shock as Ron and Hermione stumbled through the flames, and into the room.


	20. Chapter 20

Ron and Hermione burst through the fire, wands at the ready. Their eyes goggled comically as soon as they laid eyes on Quirrell, de-turbaned and wand at the ready. Without speaking, each ran in separate directions, aiming for the nooks in the walls that might offer some semblance of cover. Their youthful bravado, however, was quickly doused by Quirrell's frosty reception.

"Locomotor Mortis" He cast calmly, as a blue-white light shot from his wand to shoot directly into Ron's chest. Ron's legs, halfway through his stride, locked up, and he crashed into the ground, skidding several paces as his wand went flying from his grip.

Hermione was no more fortunate. She made it several steps further than Ron, before being blasted off of her feet by a stupefy. She flew backwards, her head cracking resoundingly on the stone floor.

Harry did not let the distraction go to waste. His wand tracing the requisite path in the air in front of him, Harry tried the first spell that came to mind.

"Stupefy!" He cast triumphantly, a smile already forming on his lips as he waited for Quirrell to fall.. Instead of the normal surge of power he was used to, however, Harry felt only a weak thud, as if he had very gently walked into a brick wall. A weak red light spat from the tip of his wand, neatly hitting Quirrell in his stomach. But he did not fly back, concussed. Instead, he was merely forced a step back, as the spell broke over him like water on a rock.

Harry, dumbfounded, stared at Quirrell for a moment, goggling at the sight. A strange weariness filled his limbs, making him feel leaden and weak. The hours of spellcasting, running, and general death-defying feats had once again taken their toll. He was completely and utterly drained.

But he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Using the slight advantage he'd gained by putting Quirrell off balance, Harry charged full tilt at the Professor, forcing his exhausted body into a final spurt of energy.

As if in slow motion, Harry saw Quirrell's wand flick towards him, an incantation already on the tip of the man's tongue. Neatly, Harry feinted one way, before stepping the other. His mind registered a red light fly past his head, right where he would have been. Then, suddenly, time regained its lost constancy.

Bodily, Harry slammed into his target, his meagre frame impacting with just enough force to throw them both to the ground. Screams immediately began echoing around the small chamber as Quirrell's flesh began to melt away into wafting plumes of steam, which pooled under the roof of the chamber in eddying waves.

As his head exploded with white-hot pain, Harry desperately clawed at Quirrell's eyes, fighting for any advantage he could glean in this uneven battle. His valiant attempts, however, were all in vain against the strength of his opponent. From his back, Quirrell easily batted away Harry's hands. Then, balling his hand into a fist, he threw it at Harry's face.

Harry felt his nose crunch, and his vision went blurry as his glasses fell away and his eyes filled with tears.

Disoriented, he was no match for the vastly more powerful Quirrell, who kicked off the infuriating child, before scrambling away, his hands already beginning to blister.

"What…what have you DONE!" He screamed furiously, a voice a high pitched whine of pain and anger. His wand, held in his hideously burnt hand, turned to aim at Harry as he searched on his hands and knees for his glasses, which lay beside him.

"Avada Keda-"

"No!" Voldemort thundered, silencing his host. "We need the boy, you fool!"

"But master, it burns!" Quirrell mewled piteously, his wand hand trembling as it followed the movements of the slowly recovering Harry.

"Silence! I care not for your trifling pains. Restore me to my body, and you will be rewarded with riches and power beyond measure."

A slightly faraway look filled Quirrell's eyes for a moment as he considered his master's wise words. "But master, how do I make the boy find the stone? I cannot touch him." He croaked, trying not to cry as the blisters on his hand and waist began to throb painfully.

"No…" Voldemort mused, a cruel smirk on his face. "His friends, however…"

Quirrell's eyes widened, and he straightened, his pain momentarily forgotten.

"Yes master, of course!" He turned from the prone Harry, and walked over to where Ron and Hermione lay. Ron looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes as he placed himself between Hermione's unconscious body and the menacing madman.

"D-don't touch her!" He shouted angrily as he tried fruitlessly to pull himself towards his wand using his hands. "Or I'll-"

Quirrell kicked his wand away. "Or what, Mr. Weasley? You think you can take p-p-poor, stuttering p-p-professor Quirrell?" He mocked. "Oh, it would be a joy to dispose of you, boy. Perhaps it will teach your brothers a lesson.

"The boy is recovering." Voldemort warned, his position on the back of Quirrell's head giving him prime position to see Harry force himself to his feet, his hand clasped to his scar.

Quirrell whipped around, his wand already casting as he turned. "Petrificus Totalus!"

A green light shot from the end of his wand, and hit Harry in the stomach. Immediately, the boy froze up, and fell back to the floor.

"Not so fast, Potter. My master is not finished with you yet." Quirrell leered at the prone student, squatting down so the immobile Harry could see his face. "Potter, I expect you want your friends to live, yes?" Clearly taking Harry's enforced silence as an affirmative, he moved on. "Well then, the choice is simple. Your friend's lives, for the stone." Reaching down, Quirrell grabbed Harry's wand up from the floor, stowing it in his robe. "And if you even make so much of a move towards me, Potter, I'll execute your friends, the redhead first, and make you watch."

Ron let out a small eek from behind them.

Quirrell ignored the noise, and instead brought his wand up. He muttered something Harry couldn't hear, whilst waving his wand in the air. Then, wonderfully, Harry felt the power of movement flood back into his limbs, pushing out the cold pins and needles that had taken hold of him. Cautiously, he stood back up, his eyes trained on Quirrell's wand. Could he rush him, and try to catch him off guard? And could it be done before Quirrell got a spell off at either him or one of his companions? After a moment of consideration, Harry shelved the idea. The odds were not in his favour.

"You do realise, of course, that after I get the Stone for you, you'll have no reason not to kill me?" Harry warned, looking warily at Quirrell.

"Why Potter," The voice in the back of Quirrell's head spoke. "Why ever would I do that?"

"Because you hate me." Harry stated flatly, in no mood to play games. "What do I have to guarantee you'll do as you say?" He reasoned, trying to stall.

"Why, is my word not enough?" The dark lord replied silkily from behind Quirrell.

"Harry, don't give him the Stone!" Ron cried weakly from behind them.

Quirrell turned furiously on the redhead. "Be silent on matters upon which you are of no import, boy." He demanded. "Silencio!"

With Ron safely silenced and out of the way, Quirrell turned back to Harry. "Enough stalling." He spat. "Go to the mirror. Bring me that Stone."

Reluctantly, Harry turned and slowly tread towards the strange mirror, petulantly dragging his steps across the stone. Voldemort and his crony just patiently watched on, ignoring Harry's attempts at timewasting.

"Stare into the mirror." Voldemort commanded. "and tell me what you see."

What you see? Harry thought to himself incredulously. It's a mirror, what do they expect?

As he gazed into the mirror, at first it seemed his scepticism was accurate. He, as one would expect in a mirror, saw himself. Then, slowly, the scene changed. No longer was he bruised and battered, at the mercy of a merciless madman. No, he was…in Hogwarts. He saw his mirror-self unroll a newspaper. Emblazoned on the frontpage was the headline; Voldemort defeated by Boy-Who-Lived! Britain saved!

Real-Harry recoiled at the sight, but couldn't bring himself to look away. What was this mirror? Was this real? Was this a glimpse of the future?

Then, mirror-Harry was joined by another. A teenager, clearly recognisable as Ron Weasley entered the frame. The two shared a smile. The, Hermione was in the frame. Suddenly, there were a dozen people crowding around Harry, all smiling and talking happily. Harry recognised Percy Weasley, Neville, and…his heart sank as he saw Draco Malfoy, his father's cane in one hand, clap mirror-Harry on the back.

What was this sorcery? Why was this image being shown? Then, Harry's mind went blank as he saw a redheaded young woman, perhaps thirty, enter the frame, hand in hand with a man with messy, unruly black hair and glasses.

"The mirror shows us the deepest desire of our hearts." Quirrell explained smugly, as he watched the entranced boy reach out at the mirror. "I wonder what you see, Harry Potter."

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He had been foolish to think…no, they were never coming back.

"I'm sure it must be very heartwarming, Potter, but I'm afraid time is growing short." He pointed his wand at Ron, who just stared back at him defiantly. "You have ten seconds."

"Ten."

Harry tore himself from the mirror, and looked around the room. The stone. It had to be hidden somewhere.

"Nine."

Somewhere a dark wizard would never seek to look.

"Eight."

Harry's eyes returned to the mirror. It had to be the key. It had to!

"Seven."

Harry, consciously avoiding looking at the glass, reached for the sides of the mirror.

"Six."

Harry ran his fingers up and down the side of the mirror, looking for any hidden compartments of clues.

"Five."

Nothing. Changing tack, Harry looked at the glass.

"Four."

The image came into clarity again. But this time, it wasn't him in a chair. It was just..him. In a normal mirror. The chamber behind him, Quirrell with his wand pointed at Ron in the background. Surely there had to be something the picture. Something, anything! He had to save his friends. There had to be something he could do. He couldn't have just dragged them all this way just to send them to their deaths. He just couldn't have.

"Three."

"DO SOMETHING!" Harry screamed at the obstinate mirror. But it refused to budge. In fact, his reflection didn't even move.

"Two."

Then, the mirror-Harry smiled. Slowly, it reached his hand into his pocket. Then, a wide grin plastered on his face, he pulled out a blood-red stone.

The Philosopher's Stone.

"One."

He felt a weight in his pocket. He didn't know how, and at this point, he didn't care.

"I'VE GOT IT!" Harry roared in delight, whipping it out of his pocket just as Quirrell began to wave his wand at Ron.

Quirrell froze. "Master?" He asked, still looking at Ron.

Voldemort's red eyes bored into Harry's for a moment, as the face savoured the power he held over life and death. There was a deadly silence for a moment, and Harry held his breath.

"Well, I am a man of my word." Voldemort relented.

Quirrell turned towards Harry, his hand outstretched. "The Stone, Potter. Throw it to me."

"I'm not throwing a bloody priceless relic that my friend's lives depend on." Harry retorted as he took a step towards Quirrell.

"Don't!" Quirrell shouted fearfully, reflexively taking a step backwards as the all-too-fresh memories of his irreparably burnt skin surfaced.

"I'm just giving you the stone as you asked, Professor." Harry claimed reasonably, taking another step forward.

"Stop it Potter! I'm warning you!" Quirrell yelled, taking another step back.

"What are you doing, fool?!" Voldemort demanded.

"He's afraid to grab the Stone." Harry explained calmly, continuing his advance.

Quirrell took another step back, his wand still pointed at Harry as Voldemort let loose an apoplectic string of curses at his host.

Ron and Harry's eyes met. Ron nodded deliberately, before gesturing at Quirrell.

Harry stepped forward once again. But this time, he didn't talk. Instead, his arm drew back, winding up for a throw. Then, he released the stone, putting all his muscle behind it. Quirrell, still stepping backward, was caught off guard. Reflexively dropping his wand, the wizard put up both hands to catch the stone, which was flying directly at his head.

To his credit, the moderately athletic man caught the stone in both hands. Unfortunately, the impact of a hard, edged magical stone upon a horribly blistered hand was not a good combination.

Quirrell screamed in pain as the blisters on his hands burst, sending him stumbling backwards as he instinctively cradled his hands to his chest, the hard, sharp surface of the stone still cutting against his skin.

His stumble brought him within arm's length of one Ron Weasley.

Ron, from his prone position, threw his arms around Quirrell's legs, sending the man tumbling to the floor.

Harry wasted no time in enacting the improvised plan. Pushing his body to the edge of total exhaustion, he covered the dozen metres between him and the scrabbling pair of Quirrell and Ron in seconds.

Just as Quirrell shoved Ron off of him, Harry dove on top of the hapless professor, almost hugging him as he tried to make as much skin contact as possible. His head exploded with pain, and within a few moments there were only two things in the world; him and Quirrell, and only one thing that mattered; winning.

Despite spirited resistance, Harry clung on, his head pounding incessantly with waves of needle hot pain, digging into his skull. His vision began to dim, his glasses lost long ago. He was vaguely aware of a cacophony of noise around him, but his mind, battered by waves of pain, could make no sense of it. After what seemed like an eternity, Quirrell's resistance began to slacken. The pain lessened for a second.

"Get him away from it!" He heard a deep, old voice shout. Then, he felt himself being tugged away from Quirrell.

"No…I need to stop him….he'll kill them" Harry heard himself shout.. But it was no use. All he could feel was the burning pain in his scar, as his world went black.


	21. Chapter 21

One of Harry's eyelids painfully cracked open a touch as he felt himself wake. There was a sharp stab of light, and Harry was forced to close it. As the drowsiness of sleep slowly began to wear off, Harry's eyelid opened up a smidge. Above him, through the sleep and moisture in his eye, he could just make out a glint of golden light, glimmering above him.

How odd.

His eyes closed, he listened closely for any hint of where he was. He certainly couldn't hear any indications of being kidnapped and trapped in some horrible dungeon by a dark wizard. Of course, he had no idea what precisely that would sound like, but he decided to give wherever he was now the benefit of the doubt.

Groaning at the sudden intake of light into his sensitive eyes, Harry forced his eyelids open. Above him, he could just make out a…a pair of glasses?

He blinked several more times to get the detritus out of his eyes. Slowly, the benevolently smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view.

"Good morning Harry." He said affably as he stared down at Harry.

"Professor." Harry acknowledged, still trying to get his bearings. From his hospital bed, he looked around what he could see of the room, trying to gauge his whereabouts.

"You're in the Hospital Ward, Harry." Dumbledore supplied, his face still locked in that loathsomely friendly smile of his.

Harry absorbed that bit of information for a moment, the gears in his mind slowly beginning to turn.

"My friends." His heart lurched, remembering the sickening crack of Hermione's head hitting the stone.

"Are fine, dear boy. Mr Weasley, however, may not remain that way if he keeps trying to break in here without Madame Pomfrey's permission."

There was a noise of agreement from somewhere behind the curtains.

"They have both been very worried about you." Dumbledore then gestured to the bedside table. "Tokens from your friends and admirers." He explained as Harry blinked stupidly at the large pile of flowers, confectionaries, and other miscellaneous items.

"Oh…I didn't realise I had that many." Harry said faintly, still trying to recover from the unprecedented show of support from the student body.

"Oh yes. They are, it seems, rather fond of you."

"Well that's..good." Harry said lamely, still unsure how to respond.

Dumbledore just smiled and nodded, waiting patiently for Harry to gather his thoughts.

Harry took a moment to collect himself. "Professor..what happens now? What happened to the Stone? And Quirrell? And-"

Dumbledore put up a hand to stem the flow of questions threatening to bubble up out of Harry.

"Your late Professor did not have the Stone long enough to use it, thanks to your efforts. But nevertheless, it has been decided the Stone must be destroyed. Such a risk cannot be allowed to survive."

"And Nicholas Flamel?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up, and his face veritably glowed with pride. "You know about Nicholas?" He asked with delight. "My, Harry, you do work quickly. Nicholas is of a mind with myself on this. He has enough elixir stored up that he and Perenelle can get their affairs in order, before moving on to the next great adventure."

Harry nodded, eager to move on. "What happened after I.." He blushed in embarrassment. "You know."

"Well, when I arrived, you had very nearly defeated Quirrell on your own." His face again flushed with pride. "Nevertheless, I feared I was too late. The magic that protected you…it is a blessing, but it can also be a curse. I was afraid we'd lost you. Your friend Mr. Weasley was good enough to pull you off of him before it was too late."

"I suppose it's too much to ask that we managed to destroy You-Know-Who as well?"

Dumbledore smiled, this time sadly. "I'm afraid so. He abandoned his follower as soon as I arrived. Dark Wizards are not known for their loyalty."

Harry rested his head back on the pillow he'd propped himself up on. It was too much to hope for, to have this whole affair tied up neatly in a bow before he'd finished his first year.

"And Harry, do call him Voldemort. Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Harry stopped himself from rolling his eyes. It was not the first time he'd heard that little pearl of wisdom. Although, he supposed if one was as powerful as Dumbledore, they had a free pass to say whatever they liked, regardless of what other people wanted.

Suddenly, a thought struck Harry. "How long have I been in here?" He asked, mildly worried to hear the answer.

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked up at a clock on the wall behind Harry.  
"Four and a half days." He answered after a moment. "The castle will be excited to hear you're awake. Everybody has been very worried about you. You were brought in with an acute case of magical exhaustion, along with your rather unique medical condition. It is to be expected. You pushed yourself to the limit." He finished reprovingly, looking down severely at Harry.

Harry, at least, had the good grace to blush. "Sorry." He mumbled shamefacedly. "What happened to Neville? Did he find you?" He asked, eager to get off this topic.

Harry missed the flicker of guilt on Dumbledore's face. "Yes, Mr. Longbottom found me, although it took him longer than one would have expected. It appears he has a knack for finding misfortune in the dungeons. Nevertheless, he found me in the end, and I came as quickly as I could."

Harry nodded. He had wondered why it had taken so very long for anybody to come to his aid. Of course Neville was to blame for it.

"There's just one more thing, Professor."

"Fire away."

Harry was momentarily thrown off by this turn of phrase. It was strange to hear such a muggle phrase coming out of the great wizard's lips, like a frog speaking Spanish. "There was a mirror, sir. It showed me…something."

Dumbledore's face drooped a little. "Ahh, yes. That was the Mirror of Erised. It is both a great blessing, and a great curse. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts."

Harry lurched a little at that. That had been his greatest desire? Not Minister for Magic, not a Quidditch legend, hell, defeating the Dark Lord had barely been a sidenote to the whole thing! Did he really want nothing more than to be free at Hogwarts and be friends with Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and- oh. His parents were there. Draco had been there. Riight.

Dumbledore misinterpreted the reason behind his student's face of disappointment. "I'm afraid it is not a vision of the future, nor is it a portal to another world. But it still has value, Harry. You would do well to consider what it showed you."

"It's just that it…it showed me my parents, and..yeah."

Pain showed on Dumbledore's face for a moment, before being replaced by a façade of geniality. "I see. I am sorry. I understand it would be hard for you to see such a thing. Take comfort in knowing that they loved you very dearly. For that is why you have this power, you see. It is love, Harry, the most powerful of all magics. Your mother protected you then, and she protects you still. Your father too. They would be proud of the person you are becoming."

Despite himself, Harry could not prevent the small glow of warmth at the Headmaster's words. "I..see. Thanks, Professor."

Dumbledore smiled, and stood for a moment, readying to leave. "Do you have any other questions, Harry?"

Harry cocked his head for a moment, before shaking it. He knew everything he needed. Dumbledore gave him one last smile, before flicking the curtain back, and leaving.

Harry, now left alone in the small, curtained off suite, turned to look at the massive pile of gifts he'd been presented with. A box caught his eye, and he smiled as he reached for a box of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavoured beans. He tore off the packaging and opened the cardboard top. Slowly, he reached down, his fingers wrapping around a promising-looking bean. He pulled it out of the box, inspecting it with a critical eye. It was yellow, with flecks of grey dotted around it. Banana? Or perhaps honey? He sniffed it, but it had no distinct scent. Shrugging, he popped it in his mouth. Then, almost immediately, he spat it out onto the floor. He glared at it, a grimace on his face. Earwax.

Harry was quite sure Madame Pomfrey was a nice woman. She had a motherly air to her, and she clearly cared very much for the students. Unfortunately, she ruled over the Medical Ward with an iron fist that even the Dark Lord would struggle to match. It was the morning after the day he'd woken up, and he'd spent the intermittent period lying in his hospital bed, bored and restless. His only source of entertainment had been the array of sweets and cards he'd received from a multitude of sources. There had been some cards from Ron and the Weasleys, including a card from Percy explaining his disappointment at Harry's breaking of school rules. There had also been an avalanche of sweets, which he had happily gorged himself on until Pomfrey had confiscated them, leaving him even more bored than he had been before. Sleep hadn't come easily. Somehow the bed had been more and more uncomfortable the longer he had been in it, but eventually his exhaustion had overtaken him. Now, however, he was hungry, unhappy, and absolutely prepared to begin a prison break if he didn't get out soon.

"Please, Madame Pomfrey? I'm bored out of my mind, here!" He complained, endeavouring to look as innocent and adorable as possible.

Pomfrey searched his scrunched-up face for a moment, presumably looking for indications he was planning on fighting a dragon as soon as he walked out the door. After a moment of silence, she relented. "Very well, Mr Potter, you may go. But if I see you even begin waving your wand it'll be rright back in here with you, understand?"

Harry nodded meekly, not willing to risk saying something that would keep him held back. Reluctantly, Pomfrey crossed over to the door, and opened it to the corridor. Harry ripped the covers off his body and clambered out of the hospital bed, almost throwing himself onto his feet in his haste. He nearly sprinted across the floor, ignoring the light-headedness he was feeling from the onrush of blood to his head. As he passed beneath the frame of the door, Pomfrey just looked at him in consternation. "Not a wave of your wand, Mr. Potter." She reminded him as he rushed past.

Harry ignored her. He knew his limits. Ignoring the overwhelming amount of evidence against that statement, he stalked down the halls of the castle. He had spent all of yesterday cramped up in the medical ward, and he was sick and tired of just lying around. He took a deep breath of the castle air, enjoying the distinct lack of potion smells that had been a constant companion for the last day.

The joys of freedom, however, were quickly replaced by a gnawing sense of anxiety in his belly. When he had defeated Quirrell as a first year, the young Harry Potter had woken up to find his already poor reputation had taken a nosedive amongst three of the four houses. In the absence of any official explanation for the events on that fateful day after exams, the school had concocted rumours to explain his mysterious injuries, and the strange events that had unfolded behind the door on the third floor. Some claimed that Harry had been kidnapped, while others claimed he had gone mad and murdered p-p-poor Professor Quirrell. One particularly far-fetched theory claimed that he had gone back in time and been responsible for the murder of Nobby Leach. None, of course, had been close to the truth, but even segments of his own house had turned against him. Not in public, of course. In public, Slytherins always stuck together. But in private, they had ignored him, and anybody who associated themselves with him.

"Potter."

Harry was rudely jarred from his thoughts as two tall, gangly redheads walked out in from him, cutting him off from his path.

"We've been mean to ask you something."

"We're very curious, me and George."

"We were hoping you would enlighten us."

Harry held up a hand to stem the flow of the Twin's little act. "I know what this is about."

"As you should! You hurt our feelings, you know."

"It was painful."

"Traumatising, I doubt we'll ever be quite the same again."

"I haven't slept in days."

"Weeks, even."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Look, I know I overreacted, but there was something happening in the castle and I had to get to the bottom of it so-

"-so you decided to punch my brother on the nose?" George (?) asked, the smile on his face dying for a moment.

"I thought he punched you on the nose."

"Well, whoever you punched on the nose, it hurt."

"It hurt that ickle Harrykins would even think about something so violent."

"So depraved."

"Psychotic, really."

Harry rolled his eyes at their little game. He had to admit though…they had a point. Being sleep-deprived and on edge was no excuse for punching somebody over a frankly minor prank. He frowned a little. Being a Gryffindor really was starting to rub off on him. And he wasn't sure he entirely liked it.

Swallowing his pride, he sighed heavily. "Look, I really am sorry. I overreacted, because I was anxious and angry about what I thought was happening in the castle. I took it out on one of you, and it was stupid of me. Am I forgiven?"

The twins looked at each other for a moment, exchanging whole sentences with their eyes in that creepy way they did sometimes.

"Well, Fred? Do you think we can grant ickle Harry some leeway in light of recent events?"

"He'll have to make it up to us."

"He did steal away our precious professor, after all."

"Tragic. Never again shall Hogwarts see the like."

"Heartrending."

"Just awful."

"What would you say would be a sufficient trade for our forgiveness?"

"It'd have to be good."

"Brilliant, really."

"Just absolutely smashing."

Simultaneously, they clicked their fingers in faux realisation.

"The Quidditch Cup!"

"First game's against Slytherin."

"And we can't lose to them again."

"Winning would just about make up for all this."

Harry held up his hand again in the universal motion for 'stop'. "Don't worry about the Cup. I can promise you this. I'm going to be the best damn seeker you have ever seen."

Fred and George grinned.

Walking into the Common Room after his encounter with the Weasley twins was, frankly, entirely underwhelming. He was half-expecting the entire house to be there, to either congratulate him or hurl insults at him, depending on what the rumour mill had churned up in his absence. However, as he walked through the portrait, braced for a storm of questions and demands, he was surprised by how coolly he was greeted. Apparently, the majority of the House was in class. A few older students, sat by the study tables, nodded at him amiably. One flashed a grin and a thumbs up at him as he walked by, but on the most part the whole affair was dreadfully subdued.

If he was being entirely honest with himself, he had been half-hoping for a massive celebration of his triumph upon his heroic return. The entire house would turn out, cheering for him. McGonagall would crack a smile. Drinks all around, coins being thrown over him. Perhaps a few pretty girls chanting "we love Potter.", the humble masses yearning for the slightest bit of attention from him. He shook his head, clearing the images from his mind. Ridiculous. He didn't do this for attention or plaudits.

Mostly.

He began walking up the common room stairs, trudging up to his room where Hedwig and his things would be. Staying in the same pair of robes for a day, possibly more, had left him itching for his dressing gown. Coming to the door to the first year's dormitory, he pulled on the handle. The door didn't move. Harry frowned. He didn't realise there were locks on these doors. As far as he knew, the doors were magically enchanted to prevent anybody not authorised from coming in. He pulled again. The door moved, but it was as if there was something barring it on the other side. Harry pulled out his wand. Sometimes enchantments were a bit odd. The magic might be confused, since he had been asleep for days and had been in contact with strange magical artifacts, like the stone and the mirror. He prodded the door a little, hoping that a little spark of magic unmistakably his would jog its memory. Ignoring the reproving voice of Madame Pomfrey in the back of his head, he channelled a smidge of magic through his wand, which let off a few red sparks. The sparks hit the brown wood of the door, rolling down it like raindrops on a window. When they reached the floor, they each faded away into the aether.

Harry once again reached for the door handle. As he reached for it, however, it pulled back from his hand. In fact, the entire door pulled away from him, revealing the room beyond.

"CONGRATULATIONS!" A mighty host yelled from within, as little streamers and sparks were shot from wands. Above the door, a banner suddenly came into existence, sporting the slogan "Welcome Back Harry!"

From behind him, Harry could hear the heavy footfalls of a large group of people (or an elephant) running up the steps behind him. Consequently, he was quickly flooded by Gryffindors both ahead of and behind him. A far cry from the silent atmosphere pervading the area just moments before, there was now a general hubbub of cheers, shouting, and general hooliganery. Even Percy Weasley, distinguishable by his height and red hair, was in the crowd, a smile on his face. "To the Common Room, everybody, go on, all of you!" He shouted, a cry quickly taken up by the other Prefects as they chivvied the crowd down, to where space was not at a premium.

Despite the din, Harry managed to talk to several people over the next few minutes.

Parvati and Lavender had both given him a massive hug, and several variations of "we were so worried about you!" Seamus and Dean Thomas had settled for giving him grins and a thumbs up. The Quidditch Team had also offered congratulations for "Whatever happened down there.", although Wood had warned him not to do it ever again; especially if there was a game afterwards. The team had then taken up roles as impromptu bodyguards, protecting the short, skinny Seeker from the jostling and mayhem of the room.

Ron had, of course, been allowed through the cordon. He'd given Harry a massive grin.

"Harry! You're alive! Blimey, you had us worried there for a bit, mate."

Harry had been just about to reply when he had noticed that the whole room had gone silent. Looking around, he had stood on his tippy-toes and craned his neck to see what had killed the vibe of the room. Whilst he couldn't see over the freakish tallness of Gryffindor House, he did not have to wait long for his question to be answered.

"As excited as we all are about Mr. Potter's return, the celebrations must wait. It is near enough to ten o'clock, and I expect you all have classes to go to, or homework to do." An old, slightly accented woman's voice echoed about the silent room. Nobody moved. "Well, go on, off with you." Reluctantly, the assembled throng began to dissipate, heading to dormitories or out the portal to classes.

"Oh, and Mr. Potter?" McGonagall spoke again. "It is good to have you back with us. You gave us all quite a fright."

"Thanks, Professor." Harry smiled. "It's nice to be back home."


	22. Chapter 22

Dumbledore held his head in his hands, rubbing his already reddened temples as he stared blankly at his desk. Then, slowly, he reached for his whitened beard and scratched it absently.

"Did I do the right thing?" He asked, to nobody in particular.

Fawkes, happily curled up in his nest, twittered at him.

Albus felt a little of his unease subside as the melody washed over him.

Logically, he knew letting the unfortunate Mr. Longbottom take the blame for the delay of dear Harry's assistance was the right thing to do. Sure, it may cause some minor disagreements now, but in the long term it was valuable, perhaps necessary, to Harry's survival.

The logic did little to soothe him.

He sighed, his hand reaching out to his trademark sweet bowl. In the last few months, he had taken a liking to the muggle sweet "Skittles". They were much like every-flavoured beans, but far sweeter, with the added bonus that the manufacturers did not put prank flavours in with the rest. He stirred the bowl a little with his wizened old finger, staring forlornly at the ripples and crenulations of the sweets.

Vaguely, he registered the grinding of stone upon stone as the stone gargoyle shuffled itself out of the way. As footsteps began to echo up the stairs into his chamber, his posture changed. His back straightened, his shoulders set themselves back, and his face rearranged itself from a despondent glumness to his usual outwardly contented self.

"Headmaster." His Deputy began. "I've just dismissed the students to their classes. You were right, I think Harry did need it. You should have seen him, Albus. His face was glowing, or so one of my prefects tells me. Like a child on Christmas."

Dumbledore smiled. That, at least, was something. Really, making sure the boy was well supported was the least he could do, considering everything he'd have to go through. The boy had the Dursley's, of course, but it was important that he had connections in the Wizarding World.

"Thank you, Minerva. Is Emmeline settling in?"

"She seems well, and her and Severus have endeavoured to keep their tension at a simmering dislike for the time being. But Albus, are you quite certain this is wise? You know how close she was to James and Lily."

"I'm quite certain, Minerva. Skittle?" He gestured to the freshly stirred bowl.

Minerva curled her lip in distaste. "I really don't know why you persist with these muggle sweets, Albus. They're quite horrid."

Albus frowned, somewhat offended. "I quite like them, myself. The sugar helps accelerate one's mind."

Minerva didn't bother to dignify that with a response. "Will you make an announcement as to Quirinius' disappearance? The whole school is talking about it. I'm sure they'll be headlines about it before long."

"I have talked it over with the Minister, and he agrees with me that this should be kept silent. It would not do to incite panic over the situation. The Gringott's break-in had enough people riled up as it was. The Prophet shan't pursue the story if the Minister applies some pressure on them."

Minerva nodded, satisfied at that answer.

"Was there anything else?"

"No, Headmaster, that was all. I have a class soon, in any case."

Dumbledore nodded his goodbye as Minerva withdrew. Within moments, he heard the Gargoyle close shut behind her, and then he was alone again.

He sighed.

"I see you are burdened, child." A smug voice said from above.

"Phineas." Albus replied neutrally. "I'm quite well, actually."

"Which is why you have been moping about your office for days, I suppose."

"My business is my own, Phineas."

"Mmm, very true, very true. Well, if you're not in need of my assistance, I suppose I'll just go back to sleep then…" The portrait said slyly, keeping one eye on the current headmaster as he feigned returning to sleep.

Dumbledore stroked his beard for a moment, letting his hand run down the smooth white hairs.

"It's the boy, Phineas." He said finally.

"Oh?" Phineas opened both of his eyes, abandoning any pretence of disinterest. "Potter, I presume?"

Dumbledore looked up at him. "I have the distinct feeling you do not sleep half as much as you would have me believe."

The portrait shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But I believe we were talking about your deceptions?"

Dumbledore reached for another skittle, but stopped himself. It would not do to have the most powerful wizard of the age be overweight. "He needs to be trained. The prophecy, it says the boy must be the one to kill Voldemort. It can only be him."

"You're quite certain this is what the prophecy says? It wouldn't be the first time a prophecy has been misinterpreted. I myself had a rather nasty one attached to my 113th birthday, if I recall, but it turned out we were thinking of the other meaning of 'address'. It was all terribly embarrassing."

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm quite sure. The prophecy was clear. Either must die at the hand of the other."

Phineas' face fell. "I see. Well, what is the problem? A blood traitor like you shouldn't have any issue sacrificing a poor boy for your goals of a mudblood infested dystopia."

Dumbledore shot a glare at the unrepentant portrait. "Ignoring your woeful misunderstanding of my philosophy, the issue is that if the boy is to survive his confrontation, he must be trained, and experienced."

Phineas cocked his head. "So? What is the problem?"

"The problem, Headmaster, is that I'm putting an eleven year old boy in mortal danger, and will have to do so again, destroying his childhood and quite possibly scarring him for life! What right to I have to do that to him?"

Phineas looked confused. "Well, its hardly desirable, I admit, but I fail to see what other choices you have. If you want the boy to survive, he must be experienced, not to mention powerful."

"I had hoped I could accomplish the prophecy this year. I lured Voldemort in with a trap, you see. Dangling his resurrection in front of him like bait on a hook. And he took it. But somehow, he just keeps surviving." His tone was rising now, almost becoming a shout. "And I had to watch an eleven year old boy, and his two friends, my students, risk their lives against a Dark Lord whilst I just sat here like an invalid old MAN." Dumbledore swiped at the bowl of skittles, throwing it off the desk and smashing in on the floor. Skittles and shards of glass scattered haphazardly about the room. Fawkes squawked in alarm, his old, wrinkled form looking at Albus in alarm. Albus breathed heavily, suddenly ashamed at his conduct. The anger..it reminded him far too much of his old self. Of the foolish young man whose rage had killed his younger sister.

Phineas raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic display of emotion. "My boy, you are an invalid old man. The duty of old men is not to do the work of their sons. The duty of old men is to pass on their knowledge and wisdom to those too young and foolish to listen. The boy may not like it now, but he will thank you when he fights this Voldemort of yours prepared, experienced, and ready to battle. Or would you rather have him confused, doubtful, and afraid?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I simply despise standing by. Watching, as the children that should have lived in peace and happiness are forced into yet another conflict. Voldemort will be more wary than ever now. He knows we almost had him. He won't show his face again for a long time. But when he does, it will be...horrific. It will be war."

"Between two groups of people who want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy but force." Phineas quoted sagely.

Dumbledore smiled. "Oliver Wendell Holmes. Phineas, you surprise me."

Phineas jerked back a little. "A muggle said that? Well then, forget I said anything. The point is, war is a constant. You can pretend otherwise, Headmaster, but in the end this little squabble of yours was always going to end in blood. The question now is whose blood it will be."

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "The boy cannot die. He is an innocent. You are right, Phineas. The boy must be trained. But this war has already claimed his parents lives, I will not let it consume his childhood as well. I will train him when the time comes. But for now, our best chance at Voldemort is gone. Harry nearly died trying to kill him. The boy deserves a life, before his world turns upside down."

Phineas nodded. "Whatever you say. It hardly matters to me." With that, the portrait closed its eyes, and drifted back off to sleep.

Dumbledore nodded to himself, deep in thought. Yes. Yes, he had been right. He hadn't wanted to stun poor Mr. Longbottom, but he knew now it had to be done. He clenched his fist as he thought about how close they'd come to total victory. Now, poor Harry was destined for years of struggle against Riddle. It was unpleasant, but he no longer felt guilty. He had done the best he could. His gamble had almost paid off. Harry had almost been spared years of pain. And even though he had not, at least now he had experience. The boy knew it could be done. Harry Potter would live, and one day he would pick up the pieces scattered by the failings of Albus Dumbledore. He scoffed. The greatest wizard of the age indeed. Yes, Harry Potter's time would come. But for now..

Albus pulled out his wand, and began the slow process of putting the glass bowl back together.

"We've got a new Defence teacher! Fred tried to convince me that she's part-troll, but I think he was just having me on." Ron said eagerly as they walked down the long stone corridor.

"Whoever she is, she can't be any worse than the last one." Neville said gloomily.

Harry ignored him, still intent on punishing the boy for his gross incompetence. He knew he shouldn't have trusted Neville to do…well, anything unrelated to Herbology, frankly.

"Maybe Fred's telling the truth. If he is, you're in real trouble." Harry smirked. "She might have been its distant relative."

Ron look confused for a second, then laughed.

"Harry!"

Harry looked behind him, where Fay Dunbar and her redheaded friend (Harry couldn't quite remember her name) looked at him eagerly.

"Is it true?" Demanded Fay. "Lee Jordan told me that Dumbledore had a duel with Quirrell because he was trying to blow up the school! That's why we've got this new teacher, you see."

Harry smiled benevolently at the girl. "I think Lee's just having you on, Fay. Quirrell was trying to steal a magical artifact, that's why he's been fired."

Fay mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise, and expression mirrored by her friend.

"Quirrell? Try to steal?" She pouted for a second. "I didn't think he had it in him."

The two girls tittered, and fell back behind the trio of boys.

Harry shook his head at this new rumour. It had been less than an hour since his return party, and already he'd heard at least thirty different stories about what had happened. The only constant between them all was that Harry, like the heroic Boy-Who-Lived that he was, had tried to stop Quirrell from pulling off some dastardly scheme.

Ron viciously kicked the floor where he walked, causing him to stumble. After he had recovered, he grimaced. "The way they tell it, you'd think you were the only one there."

It was true. Hermione and to a lesser extent Ron had both been excised from the rumours, although Ron, the more popular of the pair, seemed to have been placed in the 'trusty sidekick' role. Admittedly, this was not far from the truth, but it still seemed to rankle with the redhead.

"Don't be bitter, Ron." Harry said in mild reproof as they turned a corner. "You went toe to toe with Voldemort," He ignored the winces on the faces of those around him. "Voldemort himself, and not only survived, but won. Some of the best wizards of the age haven't done nearly so well. I know what you did, and so does the faculty, I'll bet."

Ron smiled, his fragile ego assuaged. "You think Snape might give me a pass for once?" He asked enthusiastically.

"I think you could have killed him and still not pass Potions."

Ron and Neville laughed. Together, the trio rounded the final corner. Halfway up the corridor, Harry could just make Daphne, Tracy, and Milicent walk into the Defence Classroom.

His mind shied away from thinking about those three. Those three led to Slytherin, Slytherin led to Malfoy, and Malfoy…

No, he wasn't thinking about them.

"Ron!" He said abruptly, without any follow.

"Wassat?" Ron said, startled.

"Er..um..you never told me, how did you and Hermione get through those flames?"

Ron's brow creased for a moment. "Oh, right. Well, after you ran off, without us, by the way, Hermione said that if there was so little in the bottle, how could you have gotten through when Quirrell had already had some? We looked at the bottle, and it was full up again. So I swallowed, then she did, and we ran on in." He frowned for a second. "Fat load of good that did you. I still can't believe he took us down so quickly. I mean, it was Quirrell."

Harry raised his eyebrow. "I'm not really sure how much of Quirrell was still in there at the end."

There was an awkward moment of silence between the three as they considered the Professor's sad, if not entirely underserved fate. They were still silent when they walked into the Defence Classroom. Hermione, of course, was sitting in the front row, her quill out and parchment in front of her. She smiled shyly at the three of them as they walked in, before turning her head back to look at her parchment.

Harry smiled back at her, although he was quite sure she had missed it. The little group hesitated for a second, unsure as to where they should sit. They milled about awkwardly, unsure as to whether they should resist the beckoning temptation of the status quo, or to move to the front.

"Er.. should we..I mean, do you reckon..?" Ron demurred.

Harry pursed his lips. "I dunno, I guess it can't hurt. I don't think anybody sits up there with her, so…"

Cautiously, the three of them shuffled over to the front desk, where Hermione sat alone. She didn't look up at them, apparently too engrossed by The Standard Book of Spells, Chapter 9 to register their presence.

Harry cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up at them, a look of surprise on her face.

"Oh! Hello." She said simply, as if afraid to say anything more.

"Er..hi, Hermione." Ron squeaked awkwardly. "Does anybody, you know," He made a flapping gesture with his hands. "Sit here?"

"Oh! No, I – No, nobody else sits here." She fell silent, a hopeful look on her face.

"Well…that's that then, isn't it?" With that, Ron threw his books on the desk next to Hermione's, the thick textbook whamming on the table loudly. Hermione flinched, either at the noise or Ron's all-too-casual treatment of the repository of knowledge, but swallowed her criticism.

Neville and Harry fell in behind, with Harry sitting on the girl's left, and Neville sat next to him. Conversation, however, was not in their futures, it seemed.

"Greetings, class." A regal, older woman with greying hair and high cheekbones strode in, barely even looking at the class as she marched to the board.

There were some mumbled "hellos" from the assembled students, but the majority of the class just stared blankly at her as she turned to face the class. Behind her, a piece of chalk floated into the air, hovering in front of the board. As she spoke, it began writing.

"My name is Emmeline Vance," She declared primly, "but you will refer to me as 'Miss Vance' or 'Professor Vance'." Behind her, the chalk finished spelling out her name, before falling back down to its perch.

She spoke crisply, with almost no pauses between her sentences. "I will tolerate no mischief or tomfoolery in my classroom. Together, we shall be venturing into the dangerous world of curses and jinxes, hexes and charms. If I see anybody abusing the privilege of their magic, I will see to it they will be disabused of the fool notion they have the right to do whatever they wish."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could swear he could see the blood draining from Malfoy's face. Admittedly, the rest of the class was faring little better as they received the distinct impression that Ms. Vance was not going to be nearly as pliable as Quirrell was.

"The first goal of Defence against the Dark Arts is in the name, children." Vance pulled her wand out from her sleeve. "You are not here to become warriors, or intrepid adventurers. You are here to learn how to protect yourself against all manner of beasts. By this Friday, I expect you all to have written at least half a page on Gytrashes, the circumstances under which they attack, and the best method for protecting oneself against them."

United for once, both Gryffindors and Slytherins groaned in protest at the assignment. Vance, however, was having none of it.

"Silence!" She commanded haughtily, like a queen speaking unto her subjects. Immediately, the class went still. Harry looked to his left, where Hermione was staring at the professor with wide, admiring eyes.

Nearly an hour later, and Professor Vance was proving to be as formidable a teacher as her introduction had suggested. She spoke crisply, with nary a syllable wasted. She had little patience for misbehaviour, but her presence did not seem as severe as she had first suggested. She had been very willing to help struggling students, a trait Harry, who had at times been something of a struggling student (generally due to extenuating circumstances, in his opinion) approved of greatly. But, an hour of a lecture Harry could have given himself did not make for thrilling listening, and Harry had often found himself being reduced to scribbling inane characters on his parchment. That had not been a complete waste, however. Harry had almost finished making his own alphabet.

"Whilst Lumos may not at first glance be an effective defense spell, it is, in reality, a valuable tool for any wizard." Vance explained, pointing at the board where a piece of chalk was busily writing down uses for the spell. "The bright light will often startle or temporarily disarm a Dark creature, giving you time to run from the beast." Vance finished her soliloquy, before glancing down at Seamus' notes. She creased her brow. "Lumos is spelt L-U-M-O-S." She called out to the class, before moving further back down the rows of desks.

Harry scribbled illegibly on his parchment, barely listening to the lecture. It wasn't that it was uninteresting, but he had more than enough experience with dark creatures to know the various uses of the Lumos spell to know what was what. To be stuck in the same room with somebody who didn't even know how to spell the name of the spell was…uninspiring, to say the least.

"Your handwriting will be better when somebody else is required to read it, I trust?" Vance reproved over Harry's shoulder, making him jump in his seat. He turned around to see a pair of glimmering, mauve eyes staring at him.

"Oh! Er, yes, Professor, of course." Harry stammered, caught off guard. Moody would have had a fit.

"I should hope so." She said dryly, before moving on to the front of the class.

She watched the class write in silence for a few moments more, before holding up an august hand. "That shall be all for today. Remember, homework on my desk by four o'clock Friday." She stared intensely at the class for a moment, before relenting. "Dismissed." She lazily waved her hand at the door, before turning to the board. As the class began to rise from their seats, she waved her wand, and a pair of brushes began to rub down the chalkboard.

Ron, looking more than a little shell-shocked, turned to stare at Harry. "She doesn't really expect us to do half a page on the..the, er…"

"Gytrashes." Hermione supplied as she calmly picked up her books.

"Gytrashes, right. She doesn't really expect us to do half a page on them in two days, right? I've still got an essay on Dragon Blood." He moaned, his hands outstretched in a plea for mercy.

Harry frowned. "Wasn't that due last week?"

Hermione gasped. "You haven't done that yet?" She looked shocked that somebody could even consider not getting their homework in at least a day early, let alone have it be a week late.

"Well…I had stuff on. Important stuff. But if it's so important to you, you could do it." Ron offered, a weak grin on his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but refrained from making any disparaging comments. "Not a chance. But we'd best make sure that doesn't happen again." She said, smiling at Ron encouragingly. "Dragon Blood is on page 27, by the way." She stood up, but faltered a moment. "A week. Honestly, Ron." She shook her head again.

She started walking for the door, pushing past Harry and Neville. Then, like she was caught on some invisible elastic band, stopped. She turned around to look at them. "Well? Come on, we still have an hour until History of Magic! We can get a start on the homework!" She said, far more excited than any reasonably sane person had any right to be.

Harry, Ron and Neville all exchanged looks ranging from befuddlement to resignation. Then, reaching a consensus, they made to follow her.

In the following days, little changed around the Castle. The buzz about Quirrell's disappearance and Potter's mysterious injury died down, to be replaced by other, more mundane rumours. Nothing about the incident was confirmed nor denied by the school, nor were there any mentions of the matter in the Daily Prophet. The Quibbler, of course, made some note of it, but nobody read that rag anyway. Apart from a few articles, the world did not remark on the curious case of Quirinius Quirrell, and the few who did cared only because a far more competent teacher was now educating their child. A particularly diligent observer, however, may have noticed one thing that had changed. For the first time in many, many years, Hermione Granger did not sit alone.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I know this is a bit of a nothing chapter in terms of actual plot development. But, everybody has to write a gratuitous quidditch chapter, and now I understand why JK Rowling said they were her least favourite parts to write. I promise, next chapter I'll be starting the second arc of this fic, and I'm very excited to do so. The rest of Harry's year isn't going to be easy either.

"Remember Harry, keep your eyes searching for the Snitch at all times." Oliver warned, his trademark intensity plastered all over his face. "It's tempting to look out for the bludgers – don't. Trust the Weasleys. They may be a pair of hooligans, but they know what they're about."

"Yeah, we'll protect you, promise!" One of the twins said insincerely as they scooped up a few rashers of bacon.

Harry just nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Already he could feel the inevitable knots in his stomach squirming. It was strange how he never got used to them. He'd had them before every game of Quidditch he'd ever played, but they never got any easier to handle.

He prodded unenthusiastically at a rasher of bacon, nudging it with his fork.

"Cheer up Harry, you'll do fine." Katie Bell reassured him from across the table. "We can run rings around the Slytherin Chasers anyway."

Now _that_ was a blatant lie. Slytherin's 1991/92 team had three very good chasers. Marcus Flint would actually be chosen to be part of the Wimbourne Wasps youth squad after he graduated. Pucey and Montague were also both very effective, not to mention experienced. Whilst the Gryffindor chasers would go on to be a legendary trio in their later years, for now they were a relatively unknown outfit. Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet were debuting, whilst Johnson had been part of the whitewashed 90/91 Gryffindor squad.

Harry sighed. It was a tough assignment, that was for sure. Last time, this match had been a Slytherin landslide. Cormac McLaggen had been drafted in as seeker, and stood no chance against the infinitely more experienced and versatile Higgs. The Gryffindor chasers had put up a worthy fight, but had been outplayed by the wilier Slytherins. It stood to reason that unless Harry stepped in, the same thing would happen again.

"Harry, you have to eat." A concerned Hermione said from further down the table.

Harry just shook his head, not bothering to answer. He wasn't in the mood to talk. He wanted to be out on the field already, the wind in his hair and his broom in his hands.

"She's right Harry, you might not want to eat now, but you'll regret it when your stomach growls a hundred feet in the air." Wood said, his face stern. "I want you at your best Harry. I know this is your first game, but we really have to win this one. I won't be able to Flint in the eye if we don't." He added softly, talking more to himself than anybody else.

Angelina reached over and smacked him on the arm. "Ollie, don't put so much pressure on him!" She turned to Harry. "Ignore him. Try your best Harry, but don't do anything too dangerous!"

"Yeah!" Alicia chimed in. "We don't want to see you flat on the ground because you tried to pull a Wronski Feint, alright?"

Harry smiled shyly and looked down, unsure how to respond. "em..yeah, sure. Thanks."

Looking for something to distract himself, he once again stabbed at his bacon, skewering it and holding it up in front of him. He examined it, his lip curling in distaste. Whilst on another day the fatty meat would be heavenly, today it was nothing short of nauseating. Resignedly, he put it back down on his plate.

"Alright, I'm going down to the pitch. I'll see you guys down there." He murmured. With that, he stood, ignoring the cries of protest from the table. Believe it or not, he wasn't just looking for an exit. He had his rituals. As he walked down the hall, he could feel the eyes of the various Houses, all staring at his back. The great Harry Potter, taking up the legacy of his father and becoming the youngest seeker in a hundred years. He snorted dismissively, trying to ignore the irrational glow of pride swelling in him.

He walked through the Entrance Hall out into the crisp winter air, the chill making him hunker down in his scarlet scarf. He began trudging his way down the field, wishing he still had his lucky socks. Or his lucky broom. Or his lucky anything, really. Still, at least he was able to complete _some_ of his rituals. He took out the copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ that Hermione had loaned him from his coat, and began flipping through the pages. After a few seconds, he reached the page he'd been searching for; The Game at Queerditch Marsh. He scanned the page, remembering more than reading Gertie Keddle's words (and complaints). Satisfied, he closed it again, before tucking it back into his pocket. He was ready to play.

* * *

"He's going to be okay, isn't he?" Neville asked in concern. High up in the stands, he, Ron and Hermione (along with a few dozen other students) were all waiting with bated breath for the teams to make their way out onto the pitch. Behind them, the banner the first years had made flapped triumphantly in the wind, the golden lion pacing back and forth thanks to a handy charm Flitwick had performed on it for them. The words _Potter For President_ were emblazoned in gold above the animate lion, the words occasionally shining as they caught the rays of the midmorning sun.

"He'll be fine, Neville. It'll take more than a few snakes to hurt Harry." Ron reassured him with a confidence he did not entirely feel.

"It's not the Slytherins I'm worried about." Murmured Neville gloomily as he looked at the precipitous drop to the ground fifty feet below.

"I still think it should have said 'Harry's our Hero'." Said a distracted Hermione, clearly still a little bitter the first years had ruled against her idea.

Neville and Ron ignored her complaint, instead choosing to look out onto the pitch down below.

"They're coming out!" Somebody in the back rows yelled excitedly. The crowd roared its approval as the small figures marched out onto the field, clad in their house colours. Ron, Neville and Hermione roared with them, yelling out encouragement as they spied the unruly black hair of a certain Harry Potter.

Fifty feet below, the players on the field couldn't hear any individual voices, only the raucous cheers of the supporters from the four houses, all of whom had turned out for the inaugural match of the season. Harry could almost feel the vibration in his chest as a thousand people yelled and shouted. Apparently, quite a few parents and spectators had also come to the school, probably to see the great Harry Potter either make a fool of himself or live up to his father's legacy. Even as he thought of it, his heart slipped into a higher gear, pounding in his chest. Experimentally, he bounced on his toes a few times, just to make sure his legs hadn't inexplicably stopped working.

"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you." He heard Hooch say.

He scoffed at the idea. Quidditch had always been infamously foul-ridden, and Slytherins were worse than most in that regard. The massive expectations placed on the team's players meant that win-at-all-costs had practically become the mantra of the house for nigh on thirty years.

"Mount your brooms, please."

Harry clambered onto his Cleansweep, feeling the comfortingly smooth finish on his fingertips. As if a switch had been flicked, he felts his nerves just fall away.

A sharp whistle blast signalled the start of play, and Harry kicked hard off the ground into the air. Shadowing his rise, he could see Terence Higgs staring at him, his eyes in narrow slits.

That meant he was probably insecure about being pitted against the Boy-Who-Lived. Good. With any luck, he'd be extra impatient, and probably more likely to foul as well. Harry could work with that.

The Quaffle throw was snaffled by Angelina, who immediately began a drive towards the Slytherin goal. Caught off guard, the Slytherin chasers quickly fell into a defensive formation, Pucey harassing her whilst his fellows worked to cut off passing lanes. They weren't quick enough. Angelina threw a perfect pass to Alicia, who caught it easily. Confronted by Flint, she tried to pull a one-two, but her throw was poor, and the Quaffle was intercepted by the Slytherin Captain.

Harry shook his head at the poor move, before resuming his search for the snitch. It was always a tiring job, looking for the small golden ball. It was nearly impossible to see, and whilst the Hogwarts version was enchanted to make it a little easier (to prevent the day long games common in the professional leagues) it was still as much a game of fortune as it was a game of skill.

In the distance, Harry could hear Lee Jordan commentating. "-That's a nice save by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and Gryffindor take the Quaffle. That's Katie Bell there, nice dive around Flint, off up the ground and -OUCH-" Harry winced as a bludger ricocheted off the top of Bell's head, forcing her to drop the Quaffle.

"DO YOUR BLOODY JOBS, BEATERS!" Harry roared at the twins, the sound ripped away by the wind as soon as it left his lips.

The Weasleys didn't need any encouragement. Just as Pucey sped off towards the goal, he was hit in the chest by a bludger fired off at him by one of the redheads. He too dropped the Quaffle, which was promptly caught after a second's fall by Johnson. Harry watched her for a few seconds as she made progress up the pitch, narrowly dodging a tackle by Flint. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a figure in green with a bat in his hand diving for a bludger. Taking a deep breath, Harry dived after him. His broom's superior acceleration proved key as he swept in ahead of the unfortunate Slytherin, forcing the boy to pull out of his run at the bludger. Since seekers were a protected species in most games due to the outrageous amount of fouls propagated against them, any infringements on the seeker tended to be punished harshly.

Harry didn't hear the curse the dark haired lad yelled at him but from his body language (not to mention the bat being threateningly brandished at him) the meaning was clear. Of course, Harry didn't care. He looked on in satisfaction as Johnson, who had been given a clear run thanks to her Seeker's intervention, slipped the Quaffle past Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper. The crowd went wild as the Gryffindor team celebrated first blood of the season.

"Nice move Harry!" A Weasley twin shouted as the Quaffle was retrieved. "But be careful! Sometimes they'll think taking you out is worth the penalty." The other one added.

Looking at the venomous glare the Slytherin beaters were sending him, Harry didn't doubt that would be the case next time.

The game quickly resumed, Slytherin in possession. Harry, knowing he was likely to be targeted in the Slytherin drive, withdrew from the danger zone. Tilting his broom's nose up slightly, he daintily floated up another fifty feet, giving him a wonderful bird's eye view of Pucey scoring, courtesy of a lovely setup by Flint. Even this high, he could still faintly hear the cheers of the Slytherin contingent. Blocking out the sound, he resumed his scan for the Snitch by keeping his eyes unfocused, allowing his peripheral vision to better register any flashes of light…there! Harry immediately began a severe dive, his eyes focused on the flash of light near a Weasley Twin's…oh.

Harry pulled out of his dive, ignoring the disappointed groans of the crowd. Stupid Weasley's. Why bring a wristwatch on the pitch? Shaking his head at their idiocy, he almost missed the flash of gold that zipped past Katie Bell's ear. Almost.

Harry looked around him, searching for his opposite number.

Oh no.

Higgs was hovering directly over the Gryffindor Chaser, his brow furrowed as he inspected the air. Clearly, he hadn't noticed the snitch hovering underneath him yet.

Yet.

Harry looked frantically back to Bell for a moment. Thankfully, the Snitch hadn't moved too far. Unfortunately, Higgs didn't look like he was moving any time soon either.

Harry played it casual, slowly tilting his broom down to accelerate. He began gliding to the place where the Snitch fluttered happily, his heart racing in his chest. His mind didn't register the sound of another Slytherin goal, putting them ten ahead. His eyes still locked on the Snitch, he could just make out Higgs looking at him suspiciously from his peripheral vision. Harry got closer, doing his best to look like he was staring at something in the middle distance. Higgs, confused, began looking around, above him, to his right, to his left – Suddenly Higgs stiffened, just as Harry's broom began to break into a sprint.

They both charged towards the enchanted device, Higgs slapping his broom like a demented jockey whilst Harry flattened himself against his broom, trying to increase his aerodynamicsm. The snitch, clearly sensing its peril, began backpedalling from its predators, clearly seeking escape. Harry reached his hand out for it. It was only a few feet away now, it was his to-

WHAM! Harry felt, rather than saw, a green blob enter his field of vision, and suddenly he found himself clinging onto his broom for dear life, the world, inexplicably, upside down. Harry frowned at this strange turn of events. He was quite sure the world was, usually at least, the right side up.

"Anymore of that and I'll have your entire team forfeit, do you understand?" Somebody was screaming below (or was it above?) him.

"It was an accident, honest! Terence just got-"

"Three penalty shots to Gryffindor!"

"But it-"

"Do you want me to make it four?"

A woman's face swam into Harry's view. It too was upside down.

"Merlin! Harry, are you alright?" Katie asked, concern in her voice.

Suddenly, the world began to realign as strong hands clasped his shoulders and pulled him back to normality.

Harry blinked as the world returned to the way it should be.

"That was low, even for them." Fred grumbled from behind him, hands still on Harry's shoulders.

Alicia Spinnet flew over, concern all over her face. "Harry! Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" She said, holding up two fingers by her head.

Harry cursed. "I'm fine. Damnit, I almost had it!" He turned his head to glare at the congregated Slytherin squad, who were no doubt planning some other sleazy tactic.

"Harry!" Spinnet snapped, her left hand clicking to get his attention. "Fingers!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Two. Really, I'm fine."

"Bastards. It shouldn't be allowed." George said darkly, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his bat.

"Yeah, there should be a rule against it." Bell rejoined sarcastically. "Still, at least we'll get some points out of it."

The crowd cheered as Angelina nailed the first of her three penalties.

A minute later, and the game was back on, Gryffindor in possession. Harry just soared through the air, enjoying the feeling of the wind rushing past him. Moments like this were so rare in his life. Simple moments, where life was good. No need to think, no need to analyse or consider, no time for second guessing. In the air, on his broom, things were clear. Fly. Scan. Dodge. A little pressure from his right knee and he was flying off to his left again, ready to follow the strategy. He ignored the boos of the crowd as Slytherin scored. The score wasn't important. All the score bought in school-level games was time. Time for the seeker to win the game. Time for _him_ to win the game. Fly. Scan. Fake a dive for the snitch. Fly again.

Slytherin scored.

Duck. Roll. Keep flying. That was the name of the game. Keep. Flying.

Another Slytherin goal. His time was getting shorter.

Fly. Scan. He looked up at where his opposite number was doing precisely the same thing, on the opposite side (widthways) from him. Harry cocked his head for a moment, the gears turning in his head. At this point, he'd covered quite a bit of the pitch. Assuming Higg's eyes could be trusted, chances were the snitch was up one end of the pitch. He looked to his left, where the Gryffindor goal was coming under relentless pressure from the Slytherin Chasers. Then he looked to his right, where the Slytherin Keeper, Bletchley, was doing bored loop-de-loops as she waited for some action to come her way.

He looked straight ahead, calmly taking stock of the situation as Higgs began looking at the ends of the ground, clearly coming to the same conclusion Harry had. Then, abruptly, the Slytherin seeker dashed off towards the empty Slytherin side of the field. Harry shook his head. It would make more sense, at first glance, that the snitch would be in the empty side of the field. After all, surely if it was down the crowded end one of the players would have spotted it by now?

It was funny that the exact opposite was probably true. The bored Bletchley would doubtless have spent the free minutes she'd had down her end searching for the snitch as she stood in goal, with nothing better to do. If she'd seen it, she'd have given the 'snitch spotted' signal to her seeker, and that would have been that. But on the other side of the field, filled with a brutal aerial battle between the two teams, nobody had time to search for the snitch, and there were plenty of bodies to obscure it from the player's view. Therefore…

Harry swung to his left, where Slytherin were getting very close to extending their lead to twenty points. The chasers were engaged in a fierce melee, with possession switch sides every few seconds. Worse, the bludgers were flying everywhere thanks to the efforts of the beaters, and as Harry closed he could see that not all of the brooms were in their original pristine shape. Katie Bell's broom in particular had lost its rounded top, and seemed to veer off to the left as the Gryffindor tried to fly straight.

Harry ducked under a nasty fly-by courtesy of Pucey, and then performed a Sloth-Grip Roll (where the user hangs upside down off their broom) to dodge a nastily aimed bludger. Recovering, he charged into the melee, zooming past Flint and Angelina's battle over the Quaffle. Feeling strangely calm, his eyes searched the melee, looking for anything that might – there!

On instinct, Harry dove through the heart of the battle, where Flint was trying to get the Quaffle past Wood. Like a bullet, he passed the Slytherin players, enjoying the look on their blurred but clearly confused faces. The snitch, sensing its peril, began flying in a straight line away from Harry, but its speed gave it little hope against the Cleansweep. Harry reached out his arm, all his willpower bent on bringing the little winged sphere into his embrace. He felt the wings beat against his fingertips, then he felt the comforting weight of the sphere land gently in his palm. Suddenly, gloriously, the game was over. He held his hand aloft as the crowd went wild for him. The Slytherin stands, of course, were silent.

The whistle peeped, and the audibly enhanced voice of Madame Hooch rang out across the stadium. "Harry Potter has caught the snitch!" She yelled, not bothering to hide the excitement in her voice. "Gryffindor win, One-hundred-and-ninety to fifty!"

Harry smiled. Today had been a good day.


End file.
